


Of Lakes and Rivers

by Zeke Black (istia)



Series: Snags [2]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Old West, POV Chris Larabee, POV Ezra Standish, POV Vin Tanner, Zine: My Seducer 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-05
Updated: 2002-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:09:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/Zeke%20Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in 1890, fourteen years after <em>Snags</em>, when Vin comes home to Four Corners after a three-year absence and moves in with Chris and Ezra--to Ezra's unease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Lakes and Rivers

PART ONE: ON CHANGE AND STABILITY

###### New Mexico Territory | 1890

The rain had stopped an hour before Vin reached the trail over the final hill, but his horse picked its way slowly down the rocky, slippery slope nonetheless. The careful pace suited him. He took advantage of the time to enjoy the silence and the emptiness and the sheer prettiness of the day. He'd shed the oilskin poncho and welcomed the fresh cool breeze that played against his face. His spirits had been steadily lifting since he'd left town a couple of hours before.

He'd been cooped up for almost a week in the busy conglomeration of humanity Four Corners had become over the years he'd been gone, and he hadn't been sure he could stand much more of it. There didn't seem to be enough air to breathe, or space, or even distance for his eyes to settle on. Buildings--more than just a couple now rising to higher than three stories--had seemed to press in on his senses on every side. They cast shadows, too, those buildings, when his aching bones had longed for the weak late fall sunshine that broke through the clouds occasionally. The buildings even blocked the freshening breezes from the desert, leaving instead the pall of smoke from the smoldering street fires, and cooking smells from the hotels and saloons and restaurants, and the vinegary stink of horse and cow and unwashed men. It had always been like that in towns, but it was worse now, the bigger the towns got; or else he just couldn't take the confinement as much as he'd been able to when he was younger.

He figured Nathan had known he couldn't stay put much longer. That's why Nathan had given him the back brace and told him to take it as easy as he could, with warmth in his voice and an understanding smile in those dark eyes that never seemed to change, except for the increasing web of lines around them. Deep down, Vin was pretty sure Nathan wanted to tell him he needed to rest longer, but Nathan was one of the handful of people in the world who knew him through and through. Nathan knew when he'd held onto him as long as he could, and cared enough to let him go.

He couldn't deny he was feeling tired, though. He sighted eagerly into the flat hollow before him as he emerged from the tree line. He let the pleasure grow inside and fill every cranny of his being as he took in the horses in the corrals and the smoke from the metal chimney on the house rising into the gray sky, which spelled habitation. And, most joyous of all to see, a figure emerging from a big barn to the east of the house. Just the figure of a man as small as a cornhusk doll at this distance, but with a long-legged grace and surety in his movements that Vin would know anywhere. A man who paused and watched the rider approaching and didn't even place a hand near the bone-handled Colt strapped to his hip the way a legendary gunfighter who has survived well into his sixth decade tended to do--unless he recognized his unexpected visitor even at a distance.

Vin felt the tightness in himself seep away into peacefulness.

Chris's welcoming smile was gladness warmer on Vin's senses than the fitful sun, warmer even than Nathan's warmth; or anyone's or anything.

"Wondered when you'd show up again." Satisfaction laced Chris's voice.

Chris came to his side and looked up at him, still smiling. Chris rested one tanned hand on the horse's neck and raised the other to him. He clasped Chris's hand, smiling down at his friend and letting himself sink into the familiarity of the knowing eyes. It felt instantly right, as always, to be with Chris again. It'd felt right the first time their eyes had met sixteen years ago on a fateful day in a much smaller and wilder Four Corners; it had felt right all through the following years, the ones when they saw each other daily and the ones when they didn't see each other for weeks or months at a stretch. It always felt right, felt like this, and he held onto the strong hand for longer than he would have with anyone else as he basked in that reviving sense of rightness and well-being.

He let go of the hand at last, grateful as always for Chris's silent understanding and the way the two of them had never needed words between them. Neither of them had much more to say in a day than a bullfrog basking on a lily pad in the sunshine, and that was fine. That was just fine.

He swung off the horse, keeping a grip on the horn a moment longer than usual as his feet hit the ground. His breathing hitched a little, but smoothed out as the spasm of pain in his shoulder quieted. When he looked up, Chris was surveying him thoughtfully, head cocked, eyebrows raised.

"Just a touch of the rheumatiz acting up." Vin took the reins and led his horse and pack-mule toward the barn. "Nathan says the cold's done got into my bones from too many years of sleeping on the ground. Aches something fierce sometimes," he admitted to the clear eyes that were watching him, "but it eases."

While Vin took care of his horse and mule in the barn that was cozy with animal heat, Chris finished forking hay to a cow and doling out grain and water to the horses in stalls. When Vin was finished, he was drawn like a magnet to a loose box on the back wall where a stallion was noisily enjoying his oats while ignoring the generous heaping of hay in his trough.

"A grullo," Vin breathed with admiring delight.

He touched a smooth neck the color of a wasp's nest, hardly believing what he saw. The horse's entire body was that uniform papery gray color, but shiny with it like polished metal, while the legs, mane, tail, and dorsal ridge were black. The animal nuzzled at Vin's damp buckskin coat for a moment, but returned to his oats when nothing more appetizing was forthcoming.

Chris leaned on the boards beside him, watching the stallion fondly.

"Dainty eater," Vin said, solemnly, as the beast crunched grain between his powerful teeth with reckless abandon and a shower of chewed bits spattered about him. He could see Chris's grin from the corner of his eye. "Keeping him as a stud?"

"Yup. Only had him a little over half a year. I ain't heard of a grullo mare in these parts, but he should make one hell of a fine stud even if he don't breed true, and there's a chance he will at least out of the blacks I stood him to. We'll see in the spring when they foal. I'm expecting good stock from the other mares, anyway."

Vin rubbed the strong neck again, looking at the glossy coat stretched over rippling muscles. "Only ever seen one other grullo. He's real fine. I'd've thought a stud like this'd cost a fortune, with this coloring and so young and fit and all."

He slanted a look at Chris, who smiled. "Wages of sin."

With a quirk to his mouth, Chris turned and strode out of the barn with that characteristic litheness the years hadn't taken from him at all.

Vin looked consideringly at the stallion. "Call you Hole Card, do we?"

Thoughtful, he left the barn.

He found Chris in the house, bending over a pot on the stove in the center of the main room. Vin shut the door behind himself and looked around. It had been three years since he'd last made it to these parts. It was only reasonable to expect things would have changed. Chris was doing well here; that was obvious, anyway.

"This place has growed some."

He'd seen the large addition on the west side of the house when he'd arrived, and glimpsed another at the back to the north when he'd left the barn. The shack that had originally been the entire building now had a door on the left wall into the new room to the west. Through the door, he could see a large bed made of Ponderosa pine logs pegged together and stained to a glowing golden sheen. The bed was neatly made and spread with a worn blue-and-green quilt he was almost sure he recognized. Two more doors were cut into the back wall of the original shack, both presently shut. The main room appeared to be still the cooking and eating and sitting place.

Change. It happened everywhere, unstoppable. Towns grew and shacks grew and men grew older and families grew.

"Ain't a shack no more. Made yourself a regular house. All you need's a second floor and we'll have to call it a mansion."

He sat at the table and gladly took the mug of coffee Chris placed before him.

"Had to build on." Chris shook salt into the pot, gave it a final stir, and sat down opposite him. "Too much stuff. I kept tripping on it all. Damn nuisance."

Chris had never been one to gather belongings, or to tolerate them getting in his way. He saw the ease in Chris's eyes, and looked away to scan the room again. It wasn't the spartan shack it had started out as, but it did seem a mite less crowded than it'd been three years ago. The furniture was mostly the same as he remembered: a gleaming walnut sideboard, a sofa with carved mahogany legs and arms, a couple of juniper plank bookcases filled with volumes, some with tooled leather bindings, others looking like the orange paper-covered dime novels JD'd once doted on. The bookcases, simpler than the walnut and mahogany furniture, were Chris's work; had there been only one the last time he was here? The fancy red carpet covering the floorboards in front of the sofa was new. There'd been a dresser, too, he remembered, with a looking glass, crowded in next to the plain bedstead in the north-west corner. He glanced again into the new room, but pulled his eyes away when they caught on the large, finely crafted bed.

"Might've been easier just to throw the stuff out than build new rooms to put it all in."

He looked steadily at Chris, who met his eyes with that same easeful look.

"Nah. Would have been even more of a nuisance if I'd thrown it out."

They drank coffee in a companionable silence. Rain was falling again, pattering against the shake roof, a mere sprinkle of drops that held the promise of an increasing deluge. The air was heavy with moisture, but the room was comfortable. The pain eased in Vin's back and he shed the damp buckskin coat, getting up to hang it on a peg by the door. His flannel shirt was warm and the long coat and the poncho had protected his pants from most of the wet. The smell of a spicy stew filled the air, mingling with the scent of the juniper branches burning in the stove. As he sat back down, he saw Chris's eyes set on him.

"You beat the rain. You'll stay longer this time? Cold's coming on."

He felt a tug at his heart at the unspoken acceptance that he was always welcome here, for as long as he wanted. So some things didn't change, and sometimes they were the good things, if a man was lucky.

"Don't want to crowd you...."

"Hell, got three new rooms--plus a loft to store the overflow." Chris gave him a gentle smile. "Rooms with doors, for privacy. Got a bed in each of the two back rooms, for when the boys come to visit."

He smiled back at Chris, his heart lifted as always in his friend's company. "Billy was telling me he was out here to see you a couple weeks ago. That's a real fine paint you fixed him up with. He's proud as punch of it. Says he's training it for the Founders' Day race next year; even seems to think he might win."

"Boy's growed up all right." Chris spoke with both affection and pride in his eyes and voice.

Hell, Chris'd been all the father the kid had known; he had a right to be proud.

"Could've blown me over when he said he was JD's deputy, though. Though JD can do with the help, seems like, the way the town's growed--not to mention the way them kids of his run him ragged."

Chris laughed. "Yeah, they sure are a handful. Casey's spirit and JD's energy. Hell of a combination. I had them out here for a week in the summer, give Casey and JD some time off alone together. Dang near drowned them both the day they arrived just for the satisfaction of seeing the pair of them sit still for a minute."

He wasn't fooled; he'd seen Chris's affection for JD's pair and for Nathan's trio ever since each of the youngsters had been born, the affection growing as the kids grew into their own personalities.

"Always reckoned JD and Nathan would settle down one day. They were meant for it. Nice to see them doing so good."

"Family." Chris nodded, his eyes crinkled in the thoughtful look he got when he was looking into the dark past.

Vin took a deep breath and a last look around the house that was both familiar and not familiar. He set his eyes on the beloved face opposite him, noting the way the hair had receded a little more at the temples, though the dark-blond hair, shot through with silvery streaks, was the same thick mane. The lines around the eyes and mouth were deeper, but the face was still handsome, just as fine as the limber, honed body despite Chris's fifty-five years. What had changed most in the sixteen years Vin had known him was the erasing of the shadowed look in the eyes and a relaxed contentedness that had slowly come to rest on Chris and made him something similar to what he might have been before he lost his wife and son almost twenty years before. Vin let out the breath.

"Yeah, always reckoned the ones who'd end up with family would be JD and Nathan--and you."

Chris glanced at him, brought back to the present from that dark place of his, then looked thoughtfully down at an unlit cheroot he was fiddling with. Vin followed his eyes down, looked at the large hands, sinewy and browned and capable. The hands of a worker, but with their own odd scarred beauty.

"You living alone, Chris?"

Chris smoothed a square fingertip along the tube of tightly wrapped brown tobacco leaves. He didn't speak.

"Thought maybe," Vin pursued doggedly, "when I saw how big you'd made the shack, I might find a young'un of your own here. You've made a real nice house. A real nice home for a family. Thought maybe that's why you needed the extra space."

"Home." Chris spoke the word with that deep feeling he'd always given it, ripe with the idea of home as Chris's special touchstone, that far-off horizon he'd been struggling to reach since it'd first been taken away from him. He raised his eyes to meet Vin's and spoke in a low but even voice: "There're all kinds of family, Vin."

"I thought maybe," he said, still worrying at it because he'd never been able to quite give it up, "the last three years might've made a difference."

Chris's voice was quiet, with that small distance that had crept between them years before abruptly re-appearing and making Vin ache inside. "Nothing's changed. I'm alone at the moment, but I ain't always alone."

Vin stood. He walked restlessly to the window and leaned against the frame, looking sightlessly out the water-spotted glass. He rubbed his hand against his thigh, feeling nervous energy. Home and family. Chris had made what he wanted and what he needed out of this place, and he was at peace the way he hadn't been for years after losing his first family. Chris deserved it: what he'd made of his life, what he wanted from it and the little he asked from his friends.

He thought of the pine bed that dominated the big new room. The bed wasn't fancy like the sofa and sideboard, but it was impressive and beautiful and had been fashioned with obvious and probably tedious care. Each of the spindles and rails was a near-match in thickness, and each one was straight and true. He reckoned Chris must either have planned the bed a long time ahead to let the wood dry for the year or so it needed before it could be worked, or had spent a lot of time searching for enough standing dead to give him that many matching logs. The four posts looked as thick around as Vin's splayed hand; the two holding the footboard were maybe three feet high, while the posts holding the headboard were more like five feet. The footboard was made of two thick, straight rails strung between the posts, with a fan pattern of spindles filling in the area. The headboard was what caught the eye, though. A long, perfectly curved log stretched between the posts, rising at its high point in the center a few inches above the posts more than halfway up the wall. Matched log spindles stood upright side-by-side across the entire headboard, descending from that curved top rail to a lower rail hidden by the bedding.

So. Things had changed after all in the past three years. Rooms, with doors for privacy; and a bed made by hand to be sturdy and lasting and beautiful.

The smell of stew grew stronger behind him and he could hear Chris dishing it up. He turned and looked at his old friend. The cheroot was clamped unlit between Chris's lips and his eyes were narrowed at the steam rising from the pot. He was weathered and carried the lines of pain and loss and years on his face, but he was the same vital and independent man who had meant more to Vin than anyone else in the world since his ma had died when he was five.

Family. And home.

He slid into the chair and sniffed appreciatively at the stew as Chris laid a plate heaped with thick round slices of buttered bread onto the table and sat opposite him. Vin reached for the coffeepot and filled both their mugs. They ate and drank in tranquil silence. It was only as he was scraping the last of the stew out of his bowl with a wedge of bread that Vin broke the silence, making sure his voice was casual.

"So, Ezra won you the grullo, huh?"

At Chris's grin, Vin said, "Dang. Always knew them winning ways of his would come in handy one day."

"He was pretty damn pleased with himself."

Vin chuckled. Ease flowed again between them, quiet and peaceful and binding. He washed the plates as Chris tended the fire. They settled on the fancy but comfortable sofa, stretching out their legs toward the riverstone fireplace. The last vestige of ache had left Vin's back, warmth and relaxation doing the job.

He kept his eyes on the fire when he eventually spoke. "I always reckoned it was just a matter of time. That whatever it was you...did...with Ezra would just be a passing thing, maybe what you needed to get you ready to love a woman again when the right one come along. Appeared not to be Mary after all, but I figured there'd be someone along sooner or later and by then you'd be ready to make a new family. I always hoped that for you, Chris. Just hoped you'd find your way back to a normal life one day and be...all right."

Silence fell. Sap in the juniper branches sizzled and popped; a burning ember fell onto the slate hearth and smoldered smokily before winking to black. Chris was a still presence at his side.

When he spoke, Chris's voice was steady. "Reckon Ezra and me's normal now, at least for us. There ain't ever gonna be no one else for me. There was Sarah, and then there was nobody, and, for the past fifteen or so years, there's been Ezra, one way or another, off and on sometimes. Didn't start out as anything but a--" He shifted on the sofa, crossing his long legs at the ankles. Silence stretched for several heartbeats. "I'm all right, Vin. If that's what you've been worrying about, you don't need to."

Vin nodded.

After a moment, Chris added, in a voice pitched so low it seemed he was talking to himself, "Sarah and me only got about seven years together all told. Ezra's been part of my life for more'n twice that."

He wanted to say something. An acknowledgment at least, or a sign that he was glad, but he felt suddenly drenched with tiredness and wasn't sure his voice would work properly. All the indications had been there, all those years; subtle, but obvious. He'd just preferred to look past them, like they'd disappear if he ignored them long enough. He'd ridden away the last time not intending to stay away so long, but always in the back of his mind was the thought that matters might finally have come right for Chris by the time he saw him again, without ever admitting to himself that things were already right for Chris, and had been for a good while.

He nodded again in the silence and let the mute understanding between them, which he and Chris had managed from the first time their eyes had met, reaffirm their bond.

:::::::

A couple of hours later, Vin lay awake in the larger of the two back rooms: His room for as long as he wanted to stay, Chris had said; forever, if he'd stay that long.

"If the boys or kids come visiting, they can sleep in the boxroom and the loft among Ezra's piles of stuff." Chris's voice had been the even, emotionless one that had told Vin how much Chris meant the offer; how much the offer meant to Chris. "Nothing's changed, Vin; you've always got a home here, whenever you'll have it, just like I always said."

He lay in the bed that used to be in the main room. A bed big enough to stretch tired legs and arms in, though not nearly as big as the new one Chris had made. Big enough for two people, though. Even big enough for two men if they didn't mind sleeping close to each other. He ran a hand over the soft nap of the cotton flannel sheet stretched over the thick mattress. For upwards of ten years, Chris had slept in this bed whenever he'd stayed at the shack rather than in town, and after he'd moved here mostly permanently; for a lot of those nights, Ezra would have been in it, too.

The seven of them had done the law keeping duties in town for nearly five years continuously, as the town flourished and grew around them. Near the end of that final year, the restlessness had gotten to some of them. Chris had spent increasing amounts of time out here at his ranch, gathering breeding stock and clearing pastureland. Ezra had made more and longer trips to visit his mother in Saint Louis or to try the gambling dens in other towns, wherever he wasn't known and the glitter of play and winnings attracted him. And Buck and Louisa had split their time between staying in Four Corners for Buck and traveling for Louisa's politicking interests.

Vin himself hadn't been able to cope living full-time in the town as it grew. Eventually, they'd all turned in their notices to the judge except JD. Nathan had stayed on, but his duties as healer had been increasingly in demand as the town expanded. He was still needed despite Four Corners having its own regular doctor now; a large portion of the population around couldn't afford the doctor's fees. Nathan still got paid largely in kind, and insisted that anyone outside his abilities to help see the doctor. He learned from the old man, too, acting as his assistant at need. And Josiah did full-time duty as one of the town's preachers now, though he also wandered occasionally on a circuit to the outlying farms and villages.

The town was all right. It wasn't just a little cow town anymore, with any passing gang of rowdies liable to come in and shoot it up. There was money enough now to pay a proper wage to the sheriff and a deputy of his choosing, and JD knew what he was doing. If he needed extra help, he could still call on Nathan and Josiah, and Buck when he was in town, and even Chris had been known to answer a summons and lend his skills.

Hell, the very name Chris Larabee was still a protection in itself. His shootist's legend seemed to keep growing as the years passed, achieving Paul Bunyan dimensions in the territory. The fact that Chris Larabee lived within striking distance of the town, like a silent protector, had its effect. He only had to show up, with his trademark black duster swirling around his long black-clad legs and draped back behind the distinctive black gunbelt with the silver conchas, to make most would-be troublemakers think twice.

Vin smiled in the dark. Chris was a legend as much for having survived this long as for his shooting abilities. Gunfighting and long life didn't tend to go together, but Chris Larabee was a man who beat the odds more times than not, and survived where others hadn't. Vin turned his head on the pillow to trace the wavery shadow of leafless branches outside the uncovered window. Chris had lived the years following the murders of his wife and boy in a driving fury of guilt and anger and whiskey and vengeance. He'd pulled himself out of the hell of that aftermath of loss, emerging with his ideals miraculously intact. Chris survived, and each of those responsible for the death of his family had perished, systematically pursued and dealt with. Chris survived the years as a gunfighter that had built that reputation, too. Chris had survived everything life had thrown at him and everything his own nature had handed him, and out of it all he'd built a new life for himself and found his own brand of contentment.

Vin moved his hand again along the sheet's soft nap, his mind refusing to leave behind the thought of Chris sleeping in this bed. He'd seen Chris naked often enough, in the bath house or swimming in the river or half-stripped while working around the ranch. Chris's body was long, lean, and tough, marked in numerous places with puckered gouges and starred circles marring the flesh of limbs and back and chest from years of taking bullets while dealing out death. A man's body, strong and well-used, the tanned skin setting off the golden lightness of body hair. The body that housed Chris Larabee was more beloved to Vin than any other in the world. Although that body did nothing to move him sexually, he could appreciate the beauty in its gracefulness, its perfect honed maleness. Chris was as unique and as perfect in what he was as the grullo stud.

The stud deserved a mare of matching perfection. He thought of what two such horses would look like running side-by-side. Two sleek, muscled, steel-gray bodies with eight black legs pounding over the earth, black manes and tails flying behind them, one just that much smaller than the other, but in all other ways a match in beauty and strength and rarity. Other mares might be as fine in themselves, but the picture in his mind of two grullos loping together brought a lump to his throat, like just the right phrase in a poem could do.

He'd thought for years that Mary Travis would be that match for Chris. Just that much smaller than him, but otherwise as fair and as rare and as perfect in her femaleness as Chris was in his maleness. He'd thought they matched in spirit, too, and experiences. Both widowed by murder. Both strong and independent and assertive, with ideas of their own and bravery and intelligence. Both fine people, with ethics and values that matched like everything else about them. It'd only been natural to think they'd be even finer together than they were apart. He'd long reckoned Mary had felt the same.

Chris had had other ideas.

He couldn't recall ever seeing Ezra fully naked. Even in the bath house, Ezra tended to be modest, and he didn't like plunges into chilly rivers. He'd seen Ezra almost naked, though, walking down the middle of Main Street, as brazen as you please, wearing nothing but his knee boots and a fringed tablecloth knotted around his hips after his famous show-it-all game with the cheating Big Lester Bangs, the only gambler ever to put one over on Ezra. Even after all these years, Vin still grinned involuntarily at the memory of Ezra's single-minded focus on the game and trying to figure out how Bangs was doing the scam, paying no attention to the scandal he was causing in his parade through town from the hotel to his room over the saloon.

His smile faded as he thought of Ezra's body. Ezra was shorter and sturdier built than Chris, but just as lean and muscled despite his disdain for any kind of physical work. Finer boned than any of the rest of the men who had made up the seven regulators, he stood about Mary's height, but broader and harder, his body all angles and straight lines. Fine skinned and fine boned, with elegance in every movement and evident in his showy clothes, but as tough and as ruthless and as skilled with his many guns as any of the rest of them. There must be a few scars on his body, too, marring that fair skin. Ezra had taken his share of risks and earned his share of bullets during their years as peacekeepers, never mind the wounds he'd taken in his dealings as a con man and gambler who was too damned good at what he did and too damned sarcastic not to irritate any number of folks on a regular basis.

Ezra wasn't in any way a match to Chris. He was a frisky, tempestuous, smaller, slyer, younger stud darting in and teasing the grullo and dancing away to annoy some other member of the herd before returning for another irreverent jab at the grullo. Pretty in himself, no denying that, but he didn't match the grullo and he didn't stay still long enough for anyone to get a good look at the two of them together either. And he sure as hell wasn't any use to the grullo in starting a herd of his own, or extending it.

He tried to picture Chris's large, bony hands trailing over the smooth pale skin of Ezra's chest and flanks and back. He tried to think of those two wiry bodies lying in this bed together, naked, touching each other and getting some kind of satisfaction from it. Years of nights spent together in this bed when most people, himself included, had assumed Chris was here alone and Ezra was off on his wanderings, always seeking the Eldorado of a lucrative new challenge.

Oh, he'd known almost from the start that Chris and Ezra spent time together in private. He'd been around enough to know some men liked to use other men if they got the chance, not always in nice ways; he'd also been around enough to know some men felt more for other men than they did for women. He'd had no problem with Ezra being that way inclined. Ezra never did show any interest in the women of the town, or the bargirls, or even smart, lovely Inez after she took over running the saloon when his mother bought it out from under Ezra, leaving him flat broke and hurt. He'd always liked Ezra well enough; hell, he'd've sworn he got along better with Ezra than Chris did. It didn't matter to him what private desires Ezra might have, or how he went about satisfying them.

Chris, though.... Chris was a different matter. Chris went after the whores the way he occasionally went into the whiskey bottle during the first eighteen months or so of their time in Four Corners: with a dedicated purpose to distance himself from the past. After that, when he'd realized Chris was also taking Ezra to his bed sometimes, it hadn't seemed anything more than another kind of itch, a variation of the oblivion Chris sought in the whores and booze.

It staggered him to realize it had taken him all these years to recognize that while Chris had bedded a lot of whores, never the same one more than a few times, Ezra was the only man. At least, he was reasonably certain of that. Men with those inclinations didn't fall out of trees the way whores did.

He wondered whether Chris, if he'd had a choice of men to bed, would still have wanted Ezra most, and would still want him now. Was it Ezra that Chris had ever really wanted, or just a man?

Ezra was a good-looking man by any standards. He could see that. He'd never looked at Ezra that way, but he supposed Chris must have, or still did. He tried to think of what Ezra might look like to Chris's eyes, but he couldn't get a picture. He could see the shit-eating grin and the gold tooth flashing; the dimples that creased both cheeks; the large green eyes; the neat dark brown hair that the sun lit with red glints; the bright, natty clothes: but he couldn't see them the way Chris must, for Chris to want Ezra after all these years the way he appeared to. To want Ezra and no one else.

He recalled the day when he'd first glimpsed how matters stood between Chris and Ezra. The seven of them had gone to the river one beautiful summer's day. He couldn't remember why they'd done it; just felt the desire to get out of town and away from lawkeeping and enjoy the ride and the sun and the fishing and their easy shared companionship, he supposed. He'd climbed up onto a high outcropping over the river and surveyed the others below. JD and Buck had been splashing in the river, hollering and making their usual racket. So much for fishing. Josiah had been seated on a large rock in the sun, his eyes shut, apparently lost in some kind of communion or contemplation. Nathan had been digging up bulbs and gathering greenery that he'd dry and grind to put in his healing salves.

He'd looked at each of his friends with their typical behaviors and grinned, feeling at peace with life and the day.

He hadn't, however, been able to see the last two of the group anywhere along the riverbank. He'd swiveled around to look at the forest behind him. It had taken only a moment for his eye to catch on the moving scarlet form among the trees. Ezra in that showy coat stuck out worse than a bee sting on a lip; nothing like making yourself the brightest target you could. Damn fool. Only after a few moments had he noticed that Chris was walking beside Ezra, his black clothes blending into the shadows and making him almost invisible.

Although he hadn't been able to hear their voices, he'd been able to tell that Ezra was talking as usual, his hands moving in the air as quickly as his mouth undoubtedly was. It'd also been apparent from the way he was moving that Chris was being as close-mouthed as he usually was, just listening. Vin remembered how curious it had struck him that they were together. Chris had never seemed to pay much attention to Ezra, though it had struck him then he'd been seeing them together more lately than he had previously.

He hadn't been able to hear what Ezra was saying, but he'd had a clear view of them. Ezra had suddenly turned so he was walking backwards down the trail in front of Chris, still talking with his hands. Another damnfool thing to do, and it hadn't been a surprise when Ezra had tripped on a root and would have fallen flat on his pretty red backside if Chris hadn't reached out a hand and grabbed him. Vin had grinned. Ezra purely hated looking awkward. He'd imagined Ezra cursing away in his big words.

He'd stopped smiling, though, when he'd realized Chris hadn't let go of Ezra, but was, instead, pulling him tightly against his body. Before he could look away, he'd seen Chris's mouth dart down with the quickness of a rattler striking, stopping Ezra's talking in the most direct way possible. For a moment, the black and the red figures had been clutched closely to each other before they'd separated and continued to walk down the path. Ezra's hands had moved again, but in a quieter fashion, and the two men had walked closer together.

He had turned and given them the privacy he hadn't meant to breach in the first place, his heart thumping harshly in his chest as he'd gazed at a world that had abruptly seemed like an uncharted and unfamiliar wilderness.

Restless with the old memories, he turned over, feeling the feather mattress bounce lightly on the criss-crossed ropes holding it to the frame. He'd seen the original mattress on this bed, back when Chris first built the shack. It'd been a lumpy straw-stuffed ticking then. This featherbed must have been bought for or by Ezra some time in the years since; there was probably a larger feather mattress on the big bed in which Chris slept. Ezra liked his luxuries, and he wasn't backward in expressing his opinion of anything that intruded into his comfort.

He'd never asked, but he'd always known, in the back of his mind, that the sofa and the walnut sideboard and dresser had made their way into the shack because of Ezra. Chris had undoubtedly made the new bed as well as the bookcases and the table and chairs; the other furniture was beyond his capabilities, not to mention not his style. The dark red rug, too, must have been Ezra's doing. Chris didn't mind fine things, but he wouldn't have gone out of his way to buy them and have them carted all the way out here. The shack didn't show a woman's touch, but it wasn't just Chris's shack anymore, either. He'd seen the shack change over the years on his visits, those distinctive pieces of furniture arriving one at a time, the piles of excess stuff, as Chris had called it, building up. Ezra hadn't always been here when Vin had visited, but he had been often enough. He'd known for a long time that Chris and Ezra slept together in this bed when no one else was about. He just hadn't ever wanted to admit it meant anything, or would last.

He'd visited the last time over three years ago. He hadn't left with the intention of being gone so long. It had just happened as he followed a trail here and a prospect there, wending his way west into California and as far north as Oregon. Whenever he'd thought of Chris, though, he'd kept to the hope that things would be changing while he was gone, as though not being there might help make it happen. Make Chris finally ready to get on with living his life and building a future with, if not Mary, then some other woman that suited him. That Chris would finally find the perfect match for himself that had been missing since he'd lost his wife, and be settled and balanced and all right.

Chris said he was all right now.

Deep in his heart, he felt a pang. He wasn't sure if it was anxiety, or if it might be a touch of jealousy.

Under the concealment of the blankets, he fingered the buttons on his union suit, then slipped the first few free of their holes. He slid his hand inside the top, stroking down his chest. He felt the slight roughness of the scant hair on his chest and opened another couple of buttons as he moved his hand flat-palmed over a nipple and down the arching cage of his ribs. He shut his eyes and tried to pretend it was Chris's hand touching him. It wouldn't be anything like a woman's touch. He thought of the last woman he'd bedded, a half-breed servant working at an Army post on the upper reach of the Rio Grande. Alva's hands had been toughened by work and exposure, strong and callused, but still her hand had to have been light compared to Chris's, and weaker and far smaller.

He ran his hand back up his ribs and pinched his nipple, rubbing his thumb over it afterwards, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking of what it might feel like if it were Chris's touch on him, Chris's hands moving smoothly, with surety, over his bony shoulders and stroking down his chest, following the lean slabs of muscle to the intimacy of touching his belly. He pretended Chris's strong, sure hands were pulling him toward him and he rolled onto his side, working to convince himself of a warmth and a presence filling the bed. A presence larger than any he'd ever known in his bed, at least for intimacy reasons; a presence almost larger than life, and more vivid than any other he'd ever known. Not just a presence, but Chris, his best friend, the person he cared about more than anyone else in the world.

His belly quivered under his stroking fingers, and he wondered if Chris had ever thought of him this way, ever thought of touching him in private places. How could Chris be his closest friend and yet Vin have no idea what Chris might think about him in such a basic regard?

He thought of Chris's naked chest, with those starred scars and lean, long muscles with just the barest dusting of fair hair. He ran his hand over his own chest again and tried to pretend he was touching Chris, that he knew what that chest would feel like under his fingertips, knew just what kind of touch would make Chris hiss and make Chris moan and make Chris grab him and touch him back....

Desperate, he realized he couldn't do it, he couldn't feel it. He didn't even know for sure exactly where those scars were on Chris, or what they'd feel like, or if Chris's lean chest felt anything like his own. He put his other hand over his cock inside the union suit, but it was soft, unstirred. He squeezed himself through the cloth while rubbing his nipple, but still nothing stirred in his blood.

He couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel whatever it was Chris felt when Ezra touched him or when Chris touched Ezra. Or what Ezra felt when Chris ran his tough hands over Ezra's smooth skin or rubbed Ezra's nipple or touched his cock. For all his love for Chris, he couldn't feel whatever it was they felt with each other.

He flopped onto his back and let his hands fall to his sides. Closing his eyes, he let the weariness take him away from the futility of his thoughts.

:::::::

Dawn light woke him late; a frosted rime clouded the window in the back room Vin could call his for as long as he wanted, but the featherbed was warm. He lay in it for a few extra minutes, feeling the luxury of a back that was free of pain and hands that were supple instead of aching in the joints from cold. He'd spent most of his life on the move, and most of it sleeping outside. He was forty-three years old and well started into his middle years. Funny how the spirit could remain as young as it ever was while the body was wearing out around it.

He followed his nose to the coffeepot on the stove in the main room. Chris was nowhere in sight. The door to the bedroom was open and he could see the bed neatly made, the faded quilt smoothed across the top. Looking out the window, he saw Chris near the barn, doing the morning chores. He swallowed the last of the coffee in his mug, donned his coat, and headed out into a pearly gray dawn. Light shone behind thin clouds so that the sky looked aglow, and streaks of blue could already be seen between shreds of white cloud. It was going to be a fine day.

They finished the chores together, mucking out the barn, milking the cow, feeding and watering all the animals. They didn't speak more than the essentials. Vin enjoyed the silence and closeness between them, enjoyed the familiar rhythm of sharing the jobs, of doing what was necessary to start the day. Enjoyed, too, drawing the fresh crisp air deep into his lungs and lifting his face to the first weak shafts of sun that arrowed from between the drifting clouds. When they were done, they leaned together on the top rail of the corral in front of the house and watched the grullo kicking up his heels as he stretched his strong young muscles.

Vin turned around and leaned his back against the fence, looking at the barn. "That's a fine barn, Chris. Had yourself a barn-raising?"

"Yup." Chris turned and looked in the same direction. "The boys all came out to help, along with some of the other men from roundabouts."

Vin grinned. "The 'boys' still include Josiah? Didn't see him when I was in town. He was off on his circuit, I reckon, but he must be pushing sixty-four now."

"Don't seem to change much, except he gets more silvery every year. Still strong and hearty. Yeah, he came with the others. He helped me pony some horses to the railhead in the summer, too."

Vin moved his eyes deliberately from the barn to the house and around the corrals and stock. He settled his eyes at last on Chris, noticing another unlit cheroot clamped between his lips.

"You don't seem to light them things much anymore."

Chris chuckled and took it from his mouth, looking at it. "Got out of the habit, I reckon. Ezra's been prone to bronchitis attacks in the winter the last few years. Seems to be the cold brings it on. He had a real bad bout a year ago. When I smoked, it appeared to make him cough worse, so...." Chris shrugged, and thrust the cheroot into his pocket. "Mostly got out of the habit."

Vin surveyed the ranch once more and nodded his head.

"You done good here, pard. Made yourself a real fine home, and got yourself the family you want, too. Should've told you last night: I'm glad for you."

Chris looked at him consideringly, his eyes bright and sharp, and then he smiled slowly.

"It can be your home, too, if you want, Vin. Don't mean you have to stay here all the time. Ezra don't."

Vin cocked his head. "How long's he usually stay away?"

"Depends. He needs the city and the gaming and the people, same as you need the freedom to wander and the wilderness. I've done all the wandering I need to in my life, but I understand the itch. His times away have been getting fewer and shorter, though, over the years. Except when he visits Maude; can't tell if he'll be away long or short then."

"Maude still going strong?"

"She's like Josiah--ageless and unchanging."

He laughed at the rueful note in Chris's voice. "Hell, cowboy, you ain't had no better luck with your in-laws this time round than last time."

Chris slanted him an amused look. "Well, that's the bitching truth. Fortunately, she don't quite know exactly what our relations are, or it might be worse."

"You sure about that? Maude's a canny woman, and she's been around more'n most folk. And she always had a way of looking right inside her baby boy."

Chris rubbed a hand along his stubbled jaw. "You might have a point. She gave up visiting not long after I moved out here permanent; now, she sends demanding notes when she wants to see Ezra, claiming infirmity as her excuse for him going to her. Of course, she's strong as a pack mule, but Ezra don't mind. Gives him a chance to visit the bright lights, and with the freedom to leave when she gets to annoying him."

"Which I expect still don't take long sometimes." Vin shook his head. "Them two love each other to death, can't stand to go too long without meeting, are always writing, and yet annoy each other so much when they're together that they can't wait to get away again."

"That about sums it up," Chris laughed.

"An odd kind of family, but it works."

He could almost see Chris savoring the word "family" in his mind, the way he always had. Feeling something painful shift inside himself, Vin turned around to watch the grullo again.

"It'd be good to have a place to lay up for the winter, and there ain't no place else I'd rather be." He turned and looked straight into Chris's eyes. "If you think it'll be all right with Ezra."

He couldn't miss the sparkle of pleasure in Chris's eyes as his friend smiled. "Can't speak for Ezra, but I expect it'll be fine."

Vin nodded and raised his eyes to where the sun was glinting off the metal chimney on the house, feeling both settled and unsettled at another change in his life.

"Ezra'll be home soon. He always comes home before the first snow." Chris's voice was rich with contentment and surety and expectation.

The pain of aloneness and denial eased a little inside Vin.

 

###### PART TWO: FAMILY, REDEFINED

As he turned the final switchback in the trail, Ezra could see two figures working on the fence around the new pasture to the north of the barn. One was Chris; he would recognize that form anywhere. The other was squatting down, holding a rail as Chris nailed it to a fence post. Both men turned and straightened as he approached, and he saw with a ripple of shock that the second man was Vin.

More than three years since they'd last seen Vin and only the occasional telegram to let them all know he was all right. Three years since he'd last watched Chris settle into the mute but powerful bond that tied him to Vin. Three years since Ezra had last tried to ignore the doubts in his own mind.

But three years are a long time, and these three particular years had cemented a good many changes.

He rested his eyes on Chris, who was looking up at him with a smile that just barely turned up the corners of his mouth but set his eyes aglow. The warm welcoming look pushed the doubts back into the dark hinterland of his mind where they'd dwelt for all these years.

Having reassured himself with the look from Chris, he turned his eyes back to Vin, who was looking up at him with a half-smile of his own.

"Mr. Tanner! What a delightful surprise."

"How you doing, Ezra?"

"Very well. Very well indeed, my friend."

He swung off the horse as Vin held the bridle and stroked a hand down the animal's head.

"Hell, Ezra, don't you ever ride nothing but a chestnut?"

"Good Lord, no. Appearances, my dear sir, count for everything--and chestnuts flatter me."

He grinned at Vin, who shook his head and chuckled. It was oddly warming to know he could still get that half-indulgent, half-exasperated reaction from the reserved tracker. Vin turned back to the gelding.

"Well, he's a fine animal, I'll give you that. With that small head, almost looks like he might have some Arabian in him."

"He does," Chris said. "One-quarter, from his dam."

"Nice." Vin nodded his head admiringly. "Not very old, but looks beautifully trained."

Ezra couldn't help laughing at the pleased look on Chris's face, and merely smiled more widely when Chris scowled at him.

"He should be; Chris bred, broke, and trained him himself." He softened his voice as he touched the hot neck and looked across the sturdy back to hold Chris's eyes. "And he is indeed a beauty in all ways." He schooled his voice back to a social tone. "And I'd best get him settled; he gets captious when he's denied his feed when he knows he's earned it and it's at hand. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."

He nodded at Vin and led the horse toward the barn. He heard Vin's voice behind him as he walked away.

"Must've been a colt when I was here last."

"Just on two. I green-broke him the following summer."

The voices faded as he entered the half-lit barn. On this sunny, cool day, all the animals had been moved outside. The place smelled of hay and lye, milk and dust and the earthy richness of manure. The chestnut's stall was clean and ready, as it always was when he returned. Something about the tools laid neatly on the shelf over his equipment box caught his eye. He picked up the hard brush and saw that the cracked horn back had been replaced with a thin burl shaped to just the right size. He ran his thumb over the polished surface and swallowed at the lump in his throat. He put the brush down and turned resolutely to take care of the practical needs at hand.

When he left the barn, he saw Chris and Vin again working on the fence. They had perhaps two more hours of daylight and wouldn't want to waste any while the weather was dry. He paused on the porch and surveyed the small spread. Weak sunlight touched the tops of the junipers on the hills around the valley, and the sky was a wintry pale blue. He'd made it home in time, before the snow.

He smiled ironically. _Home._ To think that this backward little place in the middle of nowhere could be everything in life he had ever wanted! For years, he'd wanted a place to call his own, a place no one could take away from him, recognizing in himself a driving need to offset the insecurity his childhood of being passed between relatives had instilled in him. He'd never had a home. When he was with his mother, it was a matter of living in hotels and casinos and riverboats, whatever venue suited the latest con in which she could make use of him. When the job was done, it was back to some relative who took him only for the gratuity his mother provided.

He'd thought for years the home he wanted was his own saloon until his mother had shattered that dream, too. He smiled again, hefting the heavy saddlebags and turning to enter the house. It had all worked out in the end, though neither he nor his mother could ever have imagined he would finally find his place to call home on a small wilderness ranch. He cast a last glance at Chris's distant figure, suppressed a cough from the itch of the cold air in his lungs, and entered the house, where warmth from the box stove enveloped him with the promising fug of cooking chili.

He shut the door and stepped forward to dump the saddlebags on the table. Filling a large kettle at the kitchen pump, he put it on the stove, nudging the iron chilipot farther back. He'd have time for a quick wash before the twilight brought Chris and Vin inside for dinner.

He checked the bread bin and found two round, dark brown loaves plus a half remaining. He calculated the days and thought that Milly must have increased their week's baking to accommodate Vin's presence. So...Vin had possibly been here for some time.

Opening the punched tin door of the pie safe, he found half a sweet potato pie, moist and thick-crusted, under the crockery cover. Milly was a good lass, worth her weight in gold--and being a buxom young woman, that was saying a lot!--for her unfailing dependability, energy, and good humor. He paid for the supplies and she took milk in exchange for her labor in doing their baking, bringing a tin milkcan tied to her saddle horn on her weekly visit. Her young family enjoyed the puddings she made for them with the extra milk, and she was able to supplement her husband's subsistence farming by selling her butter to neighbors.

He turned from the kitchen area and looked around. His quick survey reassured him everything was as it should be. The place was tidy and clean. Before he'd left, he'd paid Milly in advance for a full two months of house cleaning, just to make sure all would be done in his absence without Chris having to be bothered making arrangements even if Ezra were delayed beyond his expected return.

He moved to the sitting area at the other side of the room, smiling when he saw the ingrain carpet that covered the floorboards between the sofa and the fireplace had been turned over so the darker red and orange side was uppermost. Deeper and richer in color on this side, it gave a warmer look to the area as well as being more practical for the winter months. He wondered if Milly had thought of doing that herself, or if Chris had suggested it.... No. Must have been Milly. She was entranced with the notion of a rug on the floor and thought it a marvel. He suspected the home she and her earnest young husband had left behind in Ireland had been a dirt-floored cottage.

He noticed that Chris had found time to finish the new bookcase and moved to the corner to stroke a hand along the fine-grained surface. Chris had shelved the overflow from the back room, he saw, with space to spare, though there also seemed to be a few more of those trashy novels than he recalled. At least Chris had stacked them on the lowest shelf. He bent and pulled a couple free. Lord, he actually remembered this one from JD's days of enthusiastic reading, when the boy had felt compelled to tell everyone at length the adventures recounted in each new volume he'd purchased with his hard-earned wages. _Deadwood Dick on Deck; or, Calamity Jane, the Heroine of Whoop-Up_ by Edward L. Wheeler. That man certainly had a lot to answer for in the feeding of impressionable young minds.

He couldn't remember having seen this water-stained and disreputable object in years, or any of the rest of the Deadwood Dick series, and wondered how it had made its way to the ranch. Surely even JD had grown out of them by now! The second novel was a newer one with a colored cover, enigmatically entitled _Fresh, The Sport Chevalier; or, The Big Racket at Slide-Out_ by Albert W. Aiken. He opened it and saw the name William Travis penned on the flyleaf in a very fair copperplate. Ah. Mystery explained. Like JD in the old days, Billy never went anywhere without one or two pocket novels on his person. JD must have passed on his collection to his young protégé, who was adding to it. Poor Mary must despair nearly as much of the boy's reading tastes as she did his choice of career.

Ezra grinned as he replaced the novels in readiness for their owner's return. His smile softened as he looked at the high shelf in the bookcase that had been built to accommodate several large subscription volumes, with remaining space that his latest venture would partially fill. He walked to the table and opened the left-hand saddlebag, extricating with difficulty the thick, nine-inch square book that was crammed into the space. He removed the oilcloth, but left the brown paper wrapping tied around the heavy volume. Several more books were among the items he was having shipped home, but he had wanted to bring this one immediately.

The water was boiling. He fetched the enameled wash basin and started to put it on the kitchen floor next to the stove, but glanced at the door and stopped. Instead, he took it into the bedroom and carried the kettle in there to fill the basin. He added cool water until the temperature was acceptable, and remembered to push the door shut before he stripped off his trail-stained clothes and gave himself a quick but thorough scrubbing. It didn't compare to a proper soak in a tub, but was sufficient to freshen him for now. He donned clean clothes from the wardrobe and felt like himself again. A peripatetic life had its attractions, but its drawbacks seemed to become more overt with each year that passed.

Or perhaps he had simply, at last, found something more fundamentally satisfying than the lure of both winning and winnings.

He emptied the basin and gave the chili a stir. It appeared to be _chile con carne_ on this occasion, the _carne_ being--he sampled a sliver of meat--antelope, by the texture. He wondered if Vin had contributed the game to the household. At the least, his presence would have given Chris more time to hunt, with daily help on hand to run the place. Feeling another flutter of uneasiness in his gut, he made an effort to shake away the borrowed trouble and grabbed the saddlebags and parcel from the table, carrying them into the bedroom.

He emptied the saddlebags and stowed them in the bottom of the wardrobe next to Chris's worn black ones. He placed the paper-wrapped book in his top drawer, stretching tired limbs as he shoved the drawer closed with his hip. It was good to be home. His mother's apartment over the casino in Saint Louis was certainly comfortable, even verged on luxurious, and he had enjoyed a series of lucrative encounters in various gambling locales that had allowed him to seek the best accommodations along his route. Nevertheless, no accommodation, no matter how sumptuous, was as enticing as the thought of sleeping in his own bed. He reached out a hand and touched the top of the large post nearest him, smiling as his body gave a throb of anticipation at the thought of the coming night and his own featherbed and Chris--

Cold washed over him like an icy tide. He clutched the post with the grip of a drowning man as his vision grayed at the edges. He sank down to sit on the bed, barely feeling it give beneath him. _Night and bed and Chris._ He became aware of an ache in his hand from his fierce grip on the post and loosened his stiff fingers, though he maintained his clutch on the wood's solidity. His other hand restlessly smoothed the lumpy old quilt. This bed was his as much as Chris's; Chris had made it for them, intentioned and fashioned it for them.

Chris was a reticent man. He showed what he felt rather than verbalized it. More than once over the years, Ezra's need for words had upset the balance between them, but he'd worked to suppress his insecurity and to read into Chris's touch and Chris's actions what Chris didn't often articulate. He and Chris had never had that silent communion that seemed to bridge between Chris and Vin. From the beginning of his attraction to Chris, Ezra had wrestled with the sting of his own uncertainty, feeling the indignity of yearning for Chris with all his being when very possibly Chris was with him only for convenience. For convenience and for the sex, which was undeniably good between them and had been from their first tentative, but startlingly satisfying, encounter, long years ago when he'd courted Chris, as wary but determined as a terrier circling a mastiff.

Far eclipsing the indignity, though, was fear: of being put aside, of Chris's tiring of him, of Vin's one day coming to his senses and seeing the treasure that could be his for the taking--and simply reaching out and closing his hand. He couldn't compete with Vin and whatever that bond was that he shared with Chris, no more than he could have competed with Mary Travis or some other woman if Chris had decided he was ready to settle down and raise a family again.

He wrapped his arm around the post and leaned his cheek against the smooth wood, relishing its coolness against his face as he felt the muted throb of an incipient headache. He let his eyes drift shut in weary thought. Mary had stopped being a possible threat years ago. Barring an infelicitous meeting with some newcomer with whom Chris might fall passionately in love, a scenario that had ceased to haunt his mind for good after Chris had moved permanently out to the ranch and a moderately isolated existence, he had ceased worrying overly much about other women soon after Mary left the field. Not that Chris didn't regularly go into town, but it was mostly to take care of business or drop off the laundry or visit friends.

Chris had surprised him with the bed on his return from a sojourn in San Francisco eighteen months previously. Since then, the secret fear that Chris might meet a woman who would catch his heart had faded utterly away. Chris was no more interested in acquiring a wife and children than he was in looking for casual sex partners. Ezra would stake his life on that fact.

He hadn't been glad when Vin had left the last time. In all fairness, however, he couldn't say he'd been sorry Vin had chosen to stay away for an unprecedented amount of time. He liked Vin, and cared about him. He'd been as glad as everyone else when Vin's rare telegrams had arrived telling them he was all right. It wasn't Vin's fault Ezra had never been certain whether Chris was with him from choice or because Vin wasn't available. It certainly wasn't Vin's fault Ezra had never had the courage to express his doubts and force Chris to give him an answer he might not want to hear.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head as he heard the outer door open. At the distinctive sound of Chris's spurs, he relaxed. He heard the kitchen pump squeak and water gushing into the sink.

Vin was back, for whatever that might entail, and it would all have to be faced in time. But tonight? Tonight and, oh, however many nights to come?

Chris's boots sounded loud on the floorboards and Ezra looked up to see him standing in the bedroom doorway. Shirtless, Chris was rubbing a linen towel over his hair, having apparently washed in the cold water from the pump.

Ezra made to move but stopped himself, clutching the post, staring up at Chris.

Chris cocked his head, his eyes set intently on him. "Vin's washing up outside."

He was on his feet and was moving to meet Chris even as Chris moved toward him and was he pulling Chris hard against himself before his conscious mind had had the time even to form the intention. As he held Chris's slender body as close against his own as he could, he drew in the scents of horse and sweat and Pear's soap, felt Chris's strong arms fold across his back, registered the press of Chris's lips cool against his ear and then his neck, and felt his blood and bones turn into molten rivulets of gold inside himself, painful and glorious at once, a sunburst of feeling.

How was it ever possible for him to leave this man? How did he ever bring himself to leave behind this touch and this unlikely but exhilarating scent and this painfully intense feeling?

He was never quite alive when he was away from Chris; he thought he was never alive except here, holding Chris.

He felt the hardness of Chris's groin pressed against his own crotch, and pulled Chris's head down to kiss the fine mouth, to taste the mingling of Chris and cold water and a lingering hint of coffee. He held Chris's cool face between his hands, stubble prickling his palms, and felt Chris's hand move to cradle the back of his head, Chris's other arm banded almost painfully across his back. He didn't want to stop kissing Chris, but an islet of firm ground in his melted brain reminded him that Vin would be coming inside soon. He pulled himself back with an effort.

"Lord, I missed you," he whispered, closing his eyes and feeling Chris's response in a momentarily harder hug before he was released.

Chris smiled at him, the private smile only he ever saw. Or so he thought.

He watched as Chris took a Dobby striped shirt from the wardrobe and pulled it on. He watched the square, capable fingers fasten first the horn buttons down the front and then those on the contrasting black cuffs, feeling the eroticism in simply watching Chris's fingers manipulate buttons and tuck the tails into his tight duck pants with indecent and lingering care. He grinned as Chris slid him a teasing glance as he eased his semi-hardness inside the trousers to a more comfortable position.

As Chris turned away with a last smile at him, Ezra said, as casually as he could, "How long has Vin been here?"

Chris paused, folding the damp towel. "Couple of weeks." He turned to face Ezra squarely. "He'd like to stay, at least for the winter. I reckoned it'd be fine, but it's up to you to say."

It hurt, that he had to choose. He stared at Chris's open, relaxed face. Did Chris have secret longings? Everyone had secrets, didn't they? Things too private to share, too personal to say. Chris never mentioned Sarah, but she must be in those private thoughts of his; she must be still his deepest secret longing.

How much did Vin figure in Chris's private feelings?

He swallowed, and made the effort to keep his voice light and warm. "Of course." He smiled at Chris as the beloved face gained an extra patina of contentment. His voice failed him again, and it wasn't until Chris was on his way out the door that Ezra managed to say, "Do you want--" He licked his dry lips. "Should I move into the back room, then?"

They never shared a bed when anyone stayed at the house. All five of their old compatriots knew about his and Chris's relations; Ezra was sure they'd all known for years, even JD. It wasn't a subject people ever mentioned, though, not even old, close friends. Matters between Chris and himself simply were as they were. No one ever said anything and, for their parts, he and Chris never acted in ways that would force it upon anyone's notice. They were safe with their friends, but such a matter was not for common knowledge.

He wasn't sure anyone other than the men they'd ridden with knew. Certainly Mary didn't, he'd wager, nor any of the other citizens of the town, though some might wonder without really wanting to know. Chris was a far too respected--or feared, depending on your point of view--man to make the focus of innuendo. Billy was undoubtedly not aware of the situation. It was difficult to say how the young man would react if he ever realized that Chris, who was even more of a hero to him than Chris'd once been to JD, conducted himself in dubious ways with another man. Billy had wanted Chris to marry Mary possibly even more ardently than Mary had, wishing Chris to be his father in name and law as well as in spirit.

He had no idea whether Casey or Rain or Louisa knew or not. They gave no sign if they did. And when any of their friends visited overnight, with or without their wives, he and Chris slept separately. It was...the decent thing to do, not to force friends to confront what might make them uncomfortable.

No sanctity was available for such a relationship as theirs and safety lay only in the silence of caring friends.

The chill of the lonely void was creeping nearer when Chris was abruptly in front of him, his cool hand touching Ezra's cheek and his voice a low, passionate rasp. "No. Christ, no. Vin ain't a guest; he'll be living here, like family."

The outside door opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the stamp of Vin's boots. Chris's voice dropped even lower, but lost none of its fierceness. Breath gusted warmly against his face as Chris leaned close to murmur in his ear, "He knows, Ezra. It's all right. Nothing's changed."

He nodded, relief making him momentarily dizzy. He felt the fleeting touch of Chris's lips against his cheek before Chris turned and walked briskly into the main room. Taking a moment to collect himself, Ezra joined them.

:::::::

The evening passed amicably. Ezra set himself to be entertaining, telling satiric and more-or-less fabricated tales about his travels and his mother's activities, which were always good fodder for social occasions just as relating anecdotes made up out of whole cloth about his childhood was one of his mother's staples. He let Chris dish up the chili, and Vin, who seemed consummately at home, wait on him with bread and butter and coffee, accepting Vin's offer of a slice of the pie for dessert.

He lounged in his chair as Chris and Vin cleaned up afterwards, still entertaining them--or pretended he was entertaining them, aware that all of his friends sometimes simply let his voice wash over them without paying particular attention. He talked because it was what he was good at, and what he needed. He slowed his already leisurely drawl and let his accent deepen with the relaxation of being home. He made his presence pointed and inescapable, a contrast to the easy quietude he knew would have pertained if the two men with him had been alone.

He talked to quell his burgeoning nervousness at this new situation as he watched Vin's easefulness and Chris's tranquility. He talked to make it impossible for them to overlook him.

When all was in order in the kitchen, Chris lit the fire in the fireplace and they moved to the sitting area, following the routine of the household--the routine, at least, when he and Chris weren't alone. He got the bottle of brandy from the cupboard and turned in time to see Vin start to sink down on the sofa next to Chris but stop himself. As he crossed the room, he watched Vin sit in the wooden rocker to the side of the fire, making himself comfortable on the squab seat with his knees lounged wide apart. Ezra poured the brandies and settled on the sofa.

"A toast, gentlemen." He held the glass up to the fire to enjoy the rich glowing color, sniffing the liquor's scent appreciatively. He looked at each of his companions in turn. "To homecomings."

He fell into silence then, encouraging Chris and Vin to tell him the local news, himself now the one who let their low voices wash over him. He chuckled at the account of the latest scrape Nathan's eldest had managed to get herself into, but fell into a tired reverie, absorbing only distantly news of a death and concern about possibly rabid wolves in the area and a new business in town. All that seemed real was the smoothness of the haircloth sofa under his fingers and Chris close beside him, though not close enough to touch, and the familiarity of the two murmuring voices twining together.

He felt each of the day's miles in the saddle etched into his bones and sinew. He leaned his head back, letting the company and his languor and the brandy lull him, watching the flames and glad to be free of the prickling cough that assaulted him increasingly not only in cold weather, but also in the smoky saloons and gambling halls in which he had lived his life. His mother, who had lived her life in the same manner, suffered no such infirmity. Just one more way in which he had failed to meet her standard.

Good Lord, melancholia, no less. He straightened, interrupting a discussion about the merits of some new feed Chris was trying, and stood, playing gracefully to the two sets of eyes that rose to watch him.

"I fear I really must retire before I disgrace myself. It's been a long day. Before I go, though, I brought something you might enjoy."

He went into the bedroom and lifted the heavy parcel from his top drawer. He paused to take a leather case from Chris's drawer and returned to the main room, presenting the parcel to Chris. He smiled as Chris's eyes crinkled with expectation as he cut the string and the paper fell away from the large book that lay on his knees. Vin craned over to have a look while Chris ran an appreciative hand over the gold-stamped cover. Chris looked up at him inquiringly, a smile hovering. He smiled back.

"Yes, it seems that Mother once again mistakenly bought a book she can't stand and needed me to dispose of it for her. How exactly one manages to buy a subscription book 'mistakenly,' I can't quite fathom, but Mother is vague on the topic and it seems best to draw a curtain over that part of the proceedings. It's profligate of her to have 'mistakenly' bought the most expensive binding of the three available editions as well. Still, she thought my friends in the dustbowl, as she persists in calling our fair metropolis, might enjoy looking at the pictures."

Chris laughed outright at his dry words, and Ezra felt warmed through every cell of his being. His mother was well aware that Mark Twain, whose works she found tedious, was one of Chris's favorite authors even though she pretended not to remember such trifles. He was glad he'd carried the volume with him all the way from Saint Louis. The glow of delight and anticipation on Chris's face was the best homecoming gift he himself could have had.

Well, almost the best.

Vin had taken the book and was leafing through it, looking at the copious illustrations. Over two hundred of them, he had gathered in his own perusal of the volume. He leaned across Chris to place the leather case under the oil lamp on the table at Chris's side.

"Perhaps you'll read to Vin for a time before bed."

They read to each other often on long winter evenings, resting comfortably against each other before the crackling fire, at peace with their own company and in the circle of each other's strong arms. He gave the gift of the suggestion to Chris, leaning close across him, and was rewarded with one of Chris's slow, intimate smiles before he straightened.

He said his goodnights as Chris took his reading spectacles from the case and accepted the book Vin was proffering. Chris's voice sounded behind him as he made his way slowly into the bedroom: "It was in Warwick Castle that I came across the curious stranger whom I am going to talk about. He attracted me by three things: his candid simplicity, his marvelous familiarity with ancient armor, and the restfulness of his company--for he did all the talking. We fell together, as modest people will, in the tail of the herd that was being shown through, and he at once began to say things which interested me. As he talked along, softly, pleasantly, flowingly, he seemed to drift away imperceptibly out of this world and time, and into some remote era and old forgotten country...."

:::::::

He shut the bedroom door after lighting the lamp, and leaned against it, closing his eyes and pressing his head back against the planks. Chris's voice was a muted thread of sound on the other side of the thick wood, the words indistinguishable, and he felt a trembling, tired anguish ignite in his belly. He rubbed at his temples, futilely trying to ease the throb behind his eyes.

_...he'll be living here, like family._

He moved forward until he fetched up against the footboard of the bed and clutched the top rail. His fingers rubbed the satiny wood restlessly as he looked around the room Chris had built.

His room. His bed. Dammit.

He wouldn't give up without a fight, if it came to that--if that had been his nature, he'd never have managed to coax Chris into bed in the first place--but he knew he couldn't compete with Vin, if Vin had at last decided he wanted Chris. He stared blindly at the bed. He'd always known he couldn't compete with Mary, if the wind blew in that direction, or another woman--or Vin.

He'd always known he had nothing to offer Chris but his body and great sex, along with his wit and an unfailing talent for getting under Chris's skin, which in the early days of their association had usually meant he'd either amuse or irritate Chris in some way. He'd always been able to make Chris notice him, if he wanted him to, although the results of that notice hadn't necessarily been controllable. He'd taken more than one fist, long ago, before Chris had seemed to take tight hold of the blacker side of his temper--a temper rooted in pain more than anything else. He'd made Chris feel things he hadn't necessarily wanted to feel, or wasn't ready to face in himself again, both awakening old emotions and spawning new ones in Chris. He knew he'd shaken Chris in those difficult early years. Shaken Chris with the places he'd taken them both almost as much as he'd disturbed himself with the depth of longing and commitment he had discovered he felt for a man he'd never been able to convince himself he had a chance of holding onto.

Chris had kept his temper reined after the bad blow-up years ago that had almost separated them for good. That dispute had had Chris running and himself also leaving town, but waiting--from determination and stubbornness more than hope--here at the shack for Chris to return. Chris had never again struck out at him physically in anger or hurt since that incident. And, in the last ten years or so, the temper seemed to have seeped away from Chris entirely, emerging only on rare occasions when a stranger crossed one of Chris's ethical lines and the deadly Chris Larabee of legend emerged.

Chris wouldn't hurt him. He'd have staked his life on that simple truth until these old doubts were resurrected. Chris wouldn't hurt him physically ever again; that he knew. Not physically, but....

He slumped down on the side of the bed and wearily removed his cuff links, dropping them onto the polished surface of the pine nightstand.

Chris would never deliberately hurt him, in any way, if he could help it, but every man had his secret longings, those private desires that could drive him to act as he needed, whatever the collateral effects. If he had the chance, Ezra had no doubt Chris would choose to be with Sarah, but that longing of Chris's could never be answered and was no threat. Chris had already chosen him over Mary and all other women.

_...living here..._

Vin hadn't been an issue for three years. With Vin gone, he'd become complacent, putting away the doubts of years, the fear deep in his heart that he could only borrow Chris for a time; that, one day, the sand would all have run through the glass and he'd have to give Chris up. Fool, what a fool. His mother had taught him better: not to trust, not to take anything for granted, not to turn his brain off and let himself believe his studied charm and sexual skills and fast talking could be all a man like Chris Larabee would ever want or need.

He'd almost died a year ago of this bronchial cough that plagued him every winter. Almost died in this bed Chris had surprised him with only a few months before his illness. He picked at a tear in the disreputable quilt, which had been on the other bed and was too small for this one. Too full of astonishment and feeling to reply properly when Chris had ushered him into the bedroom to look at his handiwork, he had retreated instead to a sardonic comment about the quilt hardly matching the bed.

Chris had tumbled him onto the decadently comfortable mattress, and murmured, "Something old, something new."

He'd laughed at the absurd notion, taking it for a joke, and had taken over, the way both of them liked sometimes, pressing Chris into the featherbed and leading them into the familiar territory of sex and play to free them both from the awkwardness of a charged emotional moment. He'd used the tactic often over the years, hiding his uncertainties within the surety of his sexual abilities. He knew it for another version of the fear at the core of his relationship with Chris, in which he alternately longed to confront Chris with the doubts that afflicted him and contradictorily shied away from hearing truths he might not be able to bear.

Only days later had he noticed the bottom rails of the frame, covered by the bedding, were stained blue and had eventually learned Chris had "borrowed" the nails from Josiah. Still, it hadn't really meant anything, he was sure. It meant nothing but that Chris liked to tease.

He'd never again, however, suggested they get a new quilt.

He looked around the room, etched with shadows outside the lamp's pool of light. It hurt physically to think of Vin's ever sleeping in this room, but there was no point in borrowing trouble when he could do nothing. He'd given Chris all he had to give. He'd awakened Chris to feelings that perhaps Chris hadn't been aware he could have for another man. He'd made Chris want and enjoy what they did together in bed. He'd weathered the effects of Chris's uncertainty about being with a man and Chris's guilt about moving on emotionally from Sarah, and even Chris's wariness about Ezra's own character.

Ironic that it wouldn't have been quite the uphill battle for Vin that Ezra had waged, if Vin had wanted Chris from the first and set out to have him.

He'd plowed the field and planted the seed. If Vin had returned from his wanderings ready at last to harvest the crop, then there was nothing he could do because he'd done it all. He'd done all he could do during the past sixteen years. He'd pledged everything in him and used every one of his wiles and given his life entirely to Chris. He had no weapons with which to fight Vin. He'd kept nothing back, not even the strength to turn his plowshare into a sword to defend his land.

He'd fight, if it came to that, but with the knowledge he couldn't win. He could never be for Chris whatever it was Vin was; he'd only ever been able to look from the outside at their eerie, easy communion. Not that it might come to a fight at all. Vin had been here for two weeks already; surely Vin would have acted, if he had any such intention.

He could live with the bitterness of feeling himself always second, if not third, best. The third choice: Sarah, Vin, himself. He could live with anything he couldn't change as long as it meant he would be able to touch Chris and be given Chris's special smile and have Chris want to make love to him and want him in his life.

He removed his boots and scuffed at the cold floorboards with a socked foot. His mother would abhor his lack of pride, but, then, his mother was hardly an expert on relationships that were not dictated by monetary considerations. Money had once been the only fire in his soul, too, but Chris had changed him as much as he'd forced Chris to revise his view of himself.

He walked to the wardrobe and hurriedly removed the rest of his clothing, shivering in the chill. He'd be glad when the carpet arrived. He climbed between the cold sheets and huddled down, smiling. Milly, who thought the ingrain carpet was the height of luxury in a wilderness house, would be speechless when she saw the Kashan. The rich dark blue rug with a medallion in the center was, it was true, slightly worn from years of being in the vestibule of the casino, but the wear would be unnoticeable once it was in the bedroom. His mother had asked that he dispose of the "tired old thing" since she'd picked up a newer one at a debtor's sale. He'd measured carefully before arranging to have it shipped home. It should arrive soon with his other items, sent care of JD, as always, who would have the bundles conveyed to the ranch.

Although Chris would never admit it, his spare body felt the cold increasingly with each year that passed. He'd view the rug indulgently as one of Ezra's extravagances, but Ezra knew Chris would appreciate the warmth without consciously realizing it, just as he did the warmth the ingrain carpet gave them.

Settled on his down pillow in the dark room after he'd blown out the lamp, he could hear the murmur of Chris's voice. Vin was a silent presence, as Vin usually was. Silent but looming.

This night would be the first time they would sleep together with someone else nearby.

_...like family._

He shivered, and drew Chris's pillow close to his body under the covers.

:::::::

He awoke an indeterminate time later to the feel of cold air rushing down his back, quickly replaced by a cool body pressing close, the covers being replaced warmly around his shoulders, and an arm encircling his torso from behind. He smiled in the dark, not bothering to open his eyes, and ran his hand up the bare arm. His fingers found the shallow runnel of the scar Chris had gotten that time fourteen years ago when he'd stormed away from a too-emotional confrontation and it had been uncertain whether he'd return--until Vin had fetched him. He fingered the smooth, hairless scar, a familiar and homey part of the wiry arm, and linked his fingers possessively with Chris's large, bony ones. Chris's thumb rubbed against his inner wrist, and he felt the heat of Chris's lips against his nape.

He turned his head on the pillow, smiling as Chris obligingly kissed his cheek, pressing his lips first to the skin in front of his ear, then to the creases of his dimples. Ezra turned his head once more so that Chris's mouth found his the next time, and he could taste the brandy on Chris's tongue.

He shifted onto his back, feeling Chris pull back to accommodate him before pressing down on him, hands stroking him, a long foot caressing his calf, a knee pressing his thighs apart. He held Chris hard against himself, his hands hungry for the feel of Chris's warm skin, the scratch of his stubble, the springiness of his thick hair. He knew he'd never be whole if he were unable to surround himself with Chris; every one of his senses seemed to awaken at once with Chris's touch as though they'd all been hibernating since he'd left.

He wondered sometimes how anyone in the world could bear to live without knowing Chris's touch.

His cock was a rod of iron tapping his belly, and Chris was fumbling at the tiny buttons of Ezra's drawers, his mouth searing wherever it touched. He pulled Chris's questing mouth to his nipple and held him there, barely stopping himself from moaning. Chris licked what he'd sucked and then lightly bitten, and pressed himself farther upright to attack Ezra's drawers with both hands.

"What are you wearing these for?"

"Vin," he whispered, too uncertain to speak out loud.

Chris paused. He could see Chris's eyes gleaming in the dark above him, looking down at him.

"He's gone to bed. He's in the far back room, with the door shut. With both doors shut."

He nodded, only partially reassured. Chris gave up wrestling with the drawers and, instead, drew him close against him, turning onto his side so they faced each other. The sexual urgency was shunted aside as Chris simply held him close, silent and strong and understanding. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into the side of Chris's throat, taking reassurance from the steady throb in the vein beneath his lips. He'd never truly known what it was to feel safe until he had felt Chris's arms holding him; had never known what it was to be wanted, before Chris. After a few moments, he relaxed enough to chuckle wryly.

An interrogative murmur vibrated through the throat under his lips.

He shifted until his head was resting beside Chris's on the pillow. "Just reflecting on how I used to be the one with scandalously few inhibitions, at least in bed. It must be old age."

"Yeah?" Chris's hands moved flat-palmed up and down his sides. "You getting old on me, Standish? Losing your ability? Wasting away into a hulk of your former self? Only able to be scandalous at--"

He stopped the playful litany with a surge that had him straddling Chris. Chris's teeth gleamed with his eyes in the dark, and the large hands closed around his buttocks, a warm sure press that he could feel through the flannel drawers. Ezra hastily unbuttoned himself and released his cock to lie against Chris's erection as he eased their bodies together. He let himself gently down to lie fully on Chris's body. Chris's hands rubbed up and down his back, then slid inside his loosened drawers and cupped his buttocks, kneading and intimate, the blunt tips of his fingers penetrating into the cleft as he directed Ezra's thrusts to match the hard pushes of his own pelvis.

I want him more than anything in the world, he thought, helplessly, as he rubbed his belly against Chris's hard cock and felt the scratch of Chris's pubic hair against his scrotum and Chris's hands holding him and Chris's firm body supporting him. Chris was gasping beneath him, his hips bucking powerfully, and Ezra clamped his thighs hard around the narrow hips and thrust back, answering the need that matched them into a perfect rhythm. Chris's chest grew slick with sweat, and he rubbed his hands over the straining muscles, feeling the vibration in the flesh from the heightened thump of the heart and the rush of blood, a tide that seemed to call to his own blood.

He sweated as Chris sweated; his heart thumped and his blood pounded with Chris's; his gasps mingled with Chris's own wordless utterances. He bent his head and lapped at the sweat beaded on the sharp wing of Chris's breastbone, a mix of his and Chris's fluids. Trailing his tongue across the smooth, quivering flesh to a nipple, he swirled it about the small, rucked surface. He absorbed the tang and the scent of Chris through his mouth and his nose as his hands felt the tension in straining muscles and his body absorbed the feel of Chris pressed hard along his own length and the heart under his lips grew insistent in its rapid thumping in time with his own heart's racing.

Chris came with a harsh grunt, clutching him tightly as Chris's cock pulsed between their slick, rubbing bodies. Chris's panting filled the dark room in the aftermath, but he held Ezra firmly to their shared rhythm, controlled and steady and unfaltering, until Ezra's seed also gushed warmly onto their heaving bellies and they relaxed as though they were one body sinking into the bed together.

As the roaring in his ears died away, he heard Chris, his voice still hitching, murmur, "Not bad for an old'un. Considering," and happiness flared bright and brittle inside him.

 

###### PART THREE: PROTECTING THE PACK

The place was livelier and noisier with Ezra around, but that was familiar enough and Vin settled into the new situation with less awkwardness than he'd expected. Ezra looked fine, little changed except for a mite more gray in the dark hair at his temples. It made him look distinguished rather than aging. It was startling to see the con man looking almost respectable, though his flashy clothes still marked him as a gambler, along with the ever-present playing cards that flew through his agile fingers with the same old ease. Good bet he didn't need to stretch his hands in the mornings to shift the ache from the joints. Ezra's hands were still smooth and delicate, showing no more signs of wear and work than the rest of him that Vin could see.

Ezra was three years older than him, but a lifetime of living a sheltered indoor existence in saloons seemed to have left Ezra not only looking younger, but free of the aches and problems of middle age that already beset Vin. Chris tended to look worriedly at Ezra at the merest cough, but, as far as he could tell, Ezra was as fit as a horse and would probably outlive them all. He certainly fussed enough about being cold and insisted on his comforts.

Say one thing for living with Ezra: there was always warm water for shaving in the mornings.

Ezra seemed much the same, focused on himself and not unhappy to be the center of attention but amusing with it. He still talked a blue streak, and even if a man didn't listen to all the words, it was still easy to catch the humor or the dryness or the sarcasm in the expressive voice itself. It was useful, the way you could grasp what Ezra was feeling without bothering to wade through all his long, slow words. Although Ezra jabbered as much as ever, Chris appeared to have given up getting irritated with him. It never had curbed Ezra's tendencies in the past; maybe Chris had just given up the effort over the years.

Words and goods were both things Vin had no problem doing without, for the most part, wanting to have and to use only what was necessary. Words and goods trailed Ezra everywhere, following him like a man with two tails.

The carpet that arrived ten days or so after Ezra's homecoming, carted to the house under JD's watchful eye, was a case in point. He'd been more surprised than he should have been, he supposed, when he saw a rolled carpet in the wagon. It had taken the four of them to get the dang thing laid in the bedroom where Ezra wanted it, lifting all that damned heavy furniture and unrolling the rug to lie flat under it all: the four of them being himself, Chris, JD, and the carter, since Ezra appeared as allergic to working up a sweat doing menial labor as he always had been. Chris had just shrugged and rolled up his sleeves and JD had grimaced but taken it in stride, buckling down to do what Ezra directed. The carter had at least been bribed with a large tip. The rest of them had had to make do with one of Ezra's dazzling, gold-studded smiles when they'd staggered away from the transformed bedroom, along with a couple of glasses of his good bourbon to oil JD's and the carter's return to town.

He'd never seen a carpet as grand as that one outside a hotel or the better sort of saloon and brothel. It was so thick his boots sank into it. It looked nice, all right--even if the color did make that old quilt look even shabbier--but what a man needed with a carpet like that in a small ranch house miles from anywhere, he couldn't imagine. Snug floorboards and walls were all the luxury he needed, and more than he was used to, and it seemed a perilous waste of money to spend it on a rug. Chris didn't seem to have a problem with it, though, so he reckoned it wasn't any of his business how Ezra spent his gambling winnings.

Reckoned it wasn't his business feeling sorrowful Chris had settled for living with Ezra instead of finding someone who could be to him something like what his wife must have been.

He'd felt strange the first night when he'd gone to bed, knowing Chris would be joining Ezra in that big bed. He'd shut the door to his room and got into Chris's old bed and put it out of his mind, refusing to think of Chris naked with Ezra, of Chris touching that pampered body, of Ezra's distinctive voice surrounding Chris even there, inescapable. He'd found it easier to pretend Chris was bedded down alone in the room next to Vin's own, and he'd fallen asleep eventually by carefully not thinking anything other.

Best not to think on it at all, which proved easier than he'd expected as the days passed. Chris and Ezra gave no sign in the days of whatever they did at night. They never touched each other that he saw, never gave each other the affectionate pats or hugs that husbands and wives did, or sidewise glances, either, or special words. It was a relief they didn't. But it made him ache, too, for Chris not having what he must have known twenty years ago.

Chris said he was all right, and it was at least true he smiled a deal more now than he had in the past.

:::::::

The morning four days after the carpet arrived dawned cold, with a lumpy oatmeal sky. The barn was warm, though, as Vin finished mucking out, even with most of the animals outside. If the sleet held off, he and Chris might be able to finish the final section of fence around the north pasture. It was good land there, and putting it into use would cut down on the rough feed Chris needed to buy for the stock he kept at the house. Chris had cleared a good section at the back of the house and put it into grass earlier in the year; all that had been left to do when Vin arrived was finish fencing the large area. They'd been working on the job steadily in their spare time.

It'd be useful during foaling season, too, to have a second pasture set off from the main one to the south, especially if there was a grullo among the newborns. Be safer to keep a grullo foal and its mama close to home rather than out on the range with the bulk of the stock. Be a damned shame to lose a rare foal like that.

Ezra was in the barn checking a pregnant mare Chris had brought in from the range the day before because she was ailing. Ezra had a good touch with animals; the starred dun, which had been fidgeting uncomfortably, settled under the soothing of his hands and his drawling, honeyed voice. Vin ambled past them, giving Ezra a smile when he glanced up, though Ezra seemed too preoccupied with what he was doing to do more than nod absentmindedly, his eyes already turning back to the mare.

He made his way to the house for a mug of Chris's put-hair-on-your-chest coffee to fortify him for the day's work. If they got the fence finished today, he might be able to talk Chris into going hunting tomorrow. He felt an itch to lose himself for a day in the quiet wilderness, with Chris's steady, silent company all he needed other than the trees and the trail and the feel of the fresh air on his face.

He put the mug of coffee on the table to cool and went into his room to get his canvas work gloves. Holding them, he took the mug to the window and looked out as he sipped. Chris came into view from around the side of the barn, his lanky body moving with its usual grace and economy of movement. Chris paused as Ezra came out of the barn leading the mare. Chris put a hand on the mare's shaggy winter coat, stroking as Ezra talked, then nodded, and did his own talking.

They looked like any two men anywhere. One taller than the other and older, slim and long-legged, while the other was built more compactly. One dressed in practical clothes and muted colors in a rough tan jacket over black denim pants with a gray shirt showing; the other finer dressed in a green wool coat and pin-striped pants and clean boots. They looked like two men with nothing in common who were meeting only to conduct some business, but Chris said something that made Ezra suddenly laugh, and Ezra's reply put a grin on Chris's face. As Ezra led the mare toward the north corral on the far side of the barn, Chris called something that got him another laughing look over Ezra's shoulder and a cocky two-fingered salute, and Chris's eyes lingered on him as Ezra walked away.

Vin blinked his eyes away, turning from the window, and gulped the rest of the coffee. He was heading for the door when he heard the high-pitched squeal of a frightened horse. Quick strides took him to the door and out onto the porch, his eyes scanning. The horses in the south corral at the front of the house were milling in a panicked group; one reared, and the others pushed against each other.

"Wolf!" Chris shouted, moving toward the corral, his Colt in hand.

Vin cursed and ducked into the house to grab his Winchester from its lean against the wall near the door. He chambered a round and moved hurriedly off the porch and across the yard. He glimpsed through the multiple moving legs the elusive shape of a large gray wolf inside the corral, stalking the penned and terror-stricken animals. The space was too small. He couldn't get a bead on the animal. It was a darting shape, too bold for such a desperate attack, yet moving with a jerky, uncertain gait that slowed it. To risk the flashing hoofs, to attempt to bring down a creature that outweighed it by several hundred pounds, was madness. A pack of wolves might attack horses on the range if they couldn't find easier prey, but to come this close to a place that smelled of men and try alone to hobble and then kill a horse made no sense. The pen that kept the horses prisoners in too small a space also made the wolf more likely to be hit by a flailing hoof.

The farmers' talk over the past few weeks of rabies in a wolf pack, of attacks on small livestock closer to their homes than gray wolves generally attempted, if they were in their right minds, surged to his recollection. He hadn't paid much attention to the talk. The stories had sounded unlikely, and the sightings too few and localized to wolves if rabies really were loose in the area. Now, though, he faced all in a flash that he might have been wrong. His mouth felt dry as his alert body drew in gulps of cold air, feeding his brain and steadying his hands as he moved to the side of the corral trying for a position for a shot.

He jumped onto the second rail of the side fence to get high, straddling the top and pressing his hip against the post for balance, and turned his head to yell, "Chris, rabies!"

He froze in place, watching with confusion as Chris, after shooting him a look, instead of prudently backing off, holstered his gun and opened the corral gate, running into the midst of the snorting, shoving animals. _What the hell, what the hell?_ He could sight on the wolf now but he wouldn't risk hitting Chris unless the wolf attacked him directly. He held his breath, looking away from the rifle to follow Chris's progress. The grullo was among the group of panic-stricken horses. _Fucking hell._ Even for such an animal, invaluable to this small ranch, nigh on irreplaceable....

"Come on, come on, Chris." He was only remotely aware of his own whispered encouragement as he raised the rifle again, snugging it firmly against his shoulder to absorb the kick when he fired. He managed to subdue his breathing only through the practice of years, making sure his own body wouldn't undermine his aim. Chris's head was a small, lighter-colored shape among the heaving bodies surrounding him. "Come on."

He wanted Chris out of there. To hell with the stud and the ranch and everything else. What the fuck was Chris thinking? Not that Chris couldn't defend himself. He was the most accurate shot Vin had ever known, but, hell, he wasn't even holding his gun anymore, using both hands to push his way through the horses. A rabid animal didn't move in predictable ways and could come at a man entirely unexpectedly. A puncture or graze from the animal's teeth could put the fatal sickness into Chris.

He didn't think he'd be able to stand watching Chris die in that horrible way.

He'd shoot every one of the damn horses, if necessary, to get at the wolf. That was a given. A man did what he had to do to protect what he loved.

His body was rock-steady on its perch, the rifle a lethal extension of his shoulder and arms and hands. His senses were heightened and his breathing calm enough not to cause a ripple of movement in the long, steel barrel. As soon as his peripheral vision registered Chris moving out of the danger area towing a horse behind him, he took the bead. The wolf was a flattened shape slinking along the back fence, close to the space at the bottom where it must have gotten in but making no move to leave. It seemed to be looking for its own opening for attack, making short, aborted feints toward the horses with fangs bared. Vin judged its movement and took the shot when he had it, barely hearing over the sound of the rifle the wolf's high death-yelp but clearly seeing the large body hurtle up into the air and slam against the fence before falling in a limp heap on the ground.

He slouched down on the fence, breath suddenly short, the familiar acrid smell of burnt powder stinging his nose as sweat stung his eyes. It was over. Chris had never been in serious danger, as it turned out. He jumped down and felt lightness flow inside him with relief and the release of tension. He strode toward the front of the corral. Chris, leaving the barn, moved to meet him.

"Hell of a shot."

"Hell of a risk you took there, cowboy." But he smiled in the easefulness of its all being over and done.

He was about to go into the corral when he noticed Chris looking intently past him. He turned and saw Ezra walking toward them from the far end of the barn. Ezra's gun was gripped in a white-knuckled hand, but he holstered it as he walked. His face was white granite, utterly expressionless. It was the face that helped him be such an ace at poker; the face he'd used to wear years ago to hide his feelings and keep people guessing. Only when he saw the blanked face back did Vin realize it had been missing.

The large eyes, usually expressive, were as unreadable as the face and darker than their usual light green. Although Ezra was walking straight toward them, his eyes weren't on them but set somewhere beyond them. Chris simply stood, saying nothing, just watching the oncoming figure, which walked steadily and purposefully. Vin watched, curious, with uneasiness filtering back, as Chris appeared intent on simply waiting and Ezra on simply walking.

Ezra didn't slow when he neared them. He didn't touch his eyes on them and he didn't alter his course any, either. Chris shifted at the last moment so that Ezra's shoulder only bumped him as Ezra strode past them.

"Damn you." Ezra's voice was low and intense, but that was all he said and then he was beyond them and Chris's eyes were no longer on him but looking down at a cheroot he'd taken from his pocket.

Vin leaned over to stand the rifle against the fence in the need to break the tension. He was about to move when he noticed what Ezra was doing in the corral, and he stopped, staring, his heart suddenly in his mouth. Ezra had hold of the halter of the grullo and was soothing the agitated creature with hands and voice.

The grullo.

The world seemed cockeyed all of a sudden. It couldn't be right--but it was. Ezra had hold of the grullo, who was still in the corral.

He looked at Chris. Chris's head was down, apparently looking at the cheroot he was fingering, but his eyes slid sideways as Ezra pulled the stallion toward the gate, away from the jostling crowd of large bodies.

As Ezra opened the gate and encouraged the animal through it with a hand on the smooth gray neck splotched dark with patches of sweat, Vin scanned the remaining horses and confirmed what his mind had already told him. His and Chris's main mounts were still in the pen, along with one of the geldings usually used as a pack animal. The rest of the geldings used as trade-off mounts and pack animals, plus his mule, were in the pasture to his right.

The only animal missing was Ezra's chestnut gelding.

He moved into the corral, unable to keep still any longer, making his way through the milling horses. Hell. He'd thought it was bad that Chris risked himself to save the stud, but--

He heard Chris following him, and rubbed the sweat from his palms as he reached the wolf and hunkered down. Chris squatted beside him. Vin used his eyes before touching, then peeled the black lips back from the teeth.

"Not rabid."

"Nope."

The big wolf was a scraggy bundle of bones, scarred along its thin body and with matted fur. It stank of decay even more than it did of the blood and brains of its shattered skull. It must have been a powerful beast once; its bones were long and heavy. It must have been a fine sight to see in its prime, loping along at the head of its pack. Vin felt a flutter of sorrow.

"Just old and on his own, I reckon. Must've lost his pack, or been kicked out, maybe, defeated by a younger male. Or not able to keep up."

He ran a hand along a twisted back leg, understanding the awkward gait he'd seen earlier and had thought might be sickness.

"Bad leg. Might've been broke sometime, and it didn't set straight. Teeth are in bad shape, too."

Weren't many things sadder or more vulnerable than a wolf without a pack, without the security of the family group and help in getting food and in protecting itself at need. A lone wolf, grown old and lost, abandoned to itself and desperate, without even the warmth of the pack to keep the chill off at night.

He was suddenly fiercely glad he'd made a clean kill shot, giving the animal the only mercy left to it in a harsh world.

Chris rose to his feet beside him. He glanced up and saw that Chris had turned to face the house. He stood, wiping the wolf's spit from his fingers onto his pants, and followed Chris's eyes to see Ezra moving from the barn to the house. Ezra's steps were as steady and controlled as they had been previously, his shoulders as squared and his head as high. Vin switched his eyes to Chris, watching as Chris watched until Ezra disappeared into the house. Chris's eyes dropped then to the cheroot he was still rolling in his long fingers.

Sometimes he wished Chris would just light one of the damn things since it was obvious he wanted to, but he never did.

Chris remained silent, wrapped in his own thoughts. The stink of the dead wolf rose from the ground at their feet and the disturbed snorts of the three remaining horses in the corral were loud in the clear, still air.

He took a breath, feeling that hard lump in his throat again. "Took quite a chance there, pard, just for a gelding."

Chris rolled the cheroot once more between his rough fingers, then pushed it into his pocket. He canted a hip and hooked his thumbs over his gunbelt, his eyes rising to the distant hills.

"A good horse can be the difference between life and death when a man's on the trail alone."

And he understood at last that he'd been wrong in his figuring of certain things. He'd been dead wrong.

A man did what he had to do to protect what he loved. In Chris's set face, he could read the peacefulness with what he'd done, the rightness of it for Chris, alongside Chris's determination to see it through and make it all right. He knew, as he would always have known if he'd let himself think on things properly, that failing to protect his family was the one thing Chris would never be able to bear a second time.

He'd fought beside Chris in a lot of battles, saving a lot of people and their loved ones, protecting their homes for them. He would always fight beside Chris, whenever--and however--Chris needed him to. He felt a share of Chris's own peacefulness with himself seeping into him, as though it were coming through their longtime bond, fully unplugged at last. He felt the warmth of it inside him, as though his own pack were pulling him into its center and surrounding him with the safety and plenty of the group--but also depending on him to do his part to protect the pack and keep it strong.

He looked away from Chris, giving him his privacy. Anyhow, he didn't need to see Chris to know what Chris needed. He felt it, the way he'd used to feel it instinctively years ago before he'd created a blockage from thinking about Chris instead of feeling him.

His own voice was calm and easeful now, matching the serenity that had returned to him with understanding. "I'll take the carcass into town. Might set folks' minds at rest to see it weren't rabid. Should be a bounty for it, too."

Chris nodded, his eyes still distant. Waiting.

"Reckon I might as well stay in town a couple of nights. Take Rain up on her offer of supper, and it'll give me a chance to catch up with Josiah; JD said he's back now. Won't take us long to finish the fence when I get back."

Chris didn't smile, but some of the tension left him and he nodded again as they turned briskly to the tasks at hand. They dealt with the horses, then rolled the carcass into a canvas sheet and hefted it onto the back of the most placid of the geldings. The animal rolled his eyes at the stink of blood and death, but accepted the burden. As Chris moved the other animals to the pasture, Vin saddled his horse.

He wouldn't have minded getting a couple of things from his room but he expected he could manage for two days with the supplies he always kept ready in his saddlebags. He needed a new winter's shirt, anyway, so this would be a chance to see what the mercantile had in stock. The bounty would come in handy. They could do with a few more fence nails, too, just to make sure they didn't run out.

As he buckled the saddlebag closed, he looked down the length of the barn. He hadn't noticed before that the chestnut and the grullo were in stalls beside each other. The grullo was still in a state, stamping his feet and snorting. The chestnut, though, was as placid as though nothing had disturbed his day. A flashy looker, no doubt about that, but beneath the shiny red-brown coat and abundant mane were solid muscles and a steady, dependable nature backed up with intelligence that showed in the alert eyes. And Chris had trained the animal himself to make the most of its inborn qualities. Chuckling, he wondered how many chestnuts Chris had bred before he'd found the one that suited him.

He led his horse outside, glancing at the sky and amazed that it wasn't even mid-morning yet. Remarkable that so much could happen in such a short time. He retrieved his Winchester, pushing it into the scabbard on his saddle, and mounted. Chris led the gelding over and handed him the reins. He looked down into the well-known face.

_There're all kinds of family, Vin._

All kinds of love, too, and he knew now what kind he had and what kind Ezra had. Most importantly, he knew at last that Chris did, after all, have again what he'd lost with Sarah, and Vin felt better than he had for years.

"See you in a couple of days," Chris said.

He touched his fingers to his hat and moved away, taking the warmth in Chris's eyes with him.

As he moved toward the trail up the rise, he thought he might go up the Rio Grande in the spring, see if Alva was still at the fort. With the Indian Wars winding down, forts were being closed, and more would be going. They'd got along pretty well in the couple of weeks he'd been there before he'd headed out on another scouting job and hadn't made it back. Might be a shame if they didn't get a chance to spend more time together before their ways parted for good.

He paused when he reached the top of the rise and swung around in the saddle to look over the ranch. Chris wasn't in sight. He looked at the house and all the rest that Chris had shaped from the empty wilderness, building a life for himself out of nothing but grit and desire.

His home, too, now. His place in the world that would always be waiting to take him in no matter how far he wandered, and family of his own to look after.

His eyes lit briefly on the trussed carcass of the wolf before he turned and continued on his way. Peacefulness had come with the understanding of the ties between them, knowing he'd be fine as long as Chris was all right, and Chris would be all right as long as Ezra was safe. Curious how simple it was when it was broken down into its parts.

He doubted he and Alva would make anything permanent together. He'd liked her better than anyone he'd met in a long while, but there hadn't been any special spark there. He reckoned it wasn't in him, any more than it was in Chris, to settle for second best.

 

###### PART FOUR: DISSECTION

Ezra pressed the heels of his hands harder into his eyes as he sat on the side of the bed, his elbows digging into his knees as he slumped forward. Pain throbbed behind his left eye like a cluster of tiny knives stabbing into his head one after another. Just what he needed. He rather regretted having thrown his coat on the table with his gunbelt on his way in, though he doubted if the shivers were due entirely to the chill in the room.

The tension he'd been feeling over the past two weeks since he'd arrived home to find Vin in residence seemed to have reached its apex. He resented the resurrection in himself of years-old self-doubt and fears. All his life, he'd failed to live up to his mother's standards for him as well as failed to be what others had thought he should be--which had always seemed to be anything but what he was. His mother had expected him to become a successful "businessman," following the trade of swindling and conning that she'd meticulously taught him. Then he'd landed in Four Corners and fell into the unlikely profession of lawkeeping, finding himself abruptly caught between the Scylla and Charybdis of his mother's brand of morality on one side and the entirely different ethical demands of Chris and Nathan on the other, and with the burden of having people--both the town's citizens and his fellow regulators--depending on him for the first time in his life. Depending on him to act as they needed for their good even while many of them had persisted in regarding him with suspicion, not trusting that he wouldn't revert to his roots and betray them.

He'd been pulled between the siren call of his mother's lure of a partnership in her lucrative casino and the call of Chris to his blood and his heart. And there'd been no contest.

It hurt to feel again the old debilitating conviction that he had Chris only because Vin didn't claim Chris for himself. He'd always been the outsider in his life, never having the first claim on anything or anyone. He was the child continually left with relatives while his beautiful, charming mother pursued her business interests elsewhere. The outsider looking on as his cousins lived one kind of life and he lived another, not part of them or what they knew, and always aware that he would never really know what it was to live as they did, with a steady home and friends and ordinary schooling. Dull lives, in many ways. They couldn't know what he knew, either. None of them experienced the glitter and verve with which his mother surrounded him on the rare occasions when she needed him to help her with a job. He'd been her avid pupil, and he'd been good, very good indeed.

Until he'd met Chris and the others and his ethical code had shifted, his alliance with his mother's way of thinking had eroded, and his heart had slowly been captured. He'd moved inexorably away from his mother's sphere of influence, disappointing her, honing her impatience with him and making it sharp and cutting, yet ultimately ineffectual. Chris's approval had replaced hers as the elusive goal for which he reached.

His mother loved him and always would, but he was not quite the son she would have chosen and neither of them could ever quite escape that unspoken truth between them.

For the last sixteen years, he'd been the outsider only able to contemplate from afar the symbiotic friendship that bound Chris and Vin. Not for him the ease of Vin's communion with Chris. He'd had to push himself forward to get Chris's notice; had had to be irritating, if that was what it took, or amusing or enticing, and ever persistent. Vin would just walk in a room and Chris seemed to know he was there, while he'd had to fight for whatever notice he could get and deal with the consequences and fight again.

His mother, though he loved her deeply, hadn't been quite the mother he'd have chosen, either, at least when he was a child, but Chris was more than he'd ever dared hope for in a lover. It was...hard to have a daily reminder, after all this time, that he wasn't quite what Chris would choose, if Chris had full choice, even though Chris loved him as much as he was able to, which Ezra knew through to his soul.

He resented knowing he had Chris only because Vin didn't seem inclined to reach out his hand and simply take, with ease, what Ezra had fought for with every resource in him.

Pressing his hands harder against his head, he sardonically blamed the ache behind his eye for this plunge into maudlin bitterness about his own inadequacy, resurrecting the complicated layered pain of a lifetime of knowing he wasn't the man whom one single person in the world would choose above all others if they had full choice.

The outside door opened. Only Chris's boots sounded as the door was shut, so he stayed where he was. Fury returned, not defeating the bitterness simmering in him but rather allying with it to create a powerful hybrid. He didn't move as he heard Chris's steps in the bedroom doorway.

"Vin's taken the carcass into town."

Fine. Wonderful. He didn't bother to respond.

"It wasn't rabid."

He didn't look up. "And you knew that when?"

A brief silence. He could picture Chris shifting his rangy body without moving his feet, resting his hands on his belt or fiddling with something the way he did, dark eyes set on him with a still thoughtfulness.

"It was never terribly likely. Them stories the farmers have been telling never added up."

"Not terribly likely. Even when Vin yelled that it was rabid."

"He was just reminding us of the possibility."

He dropped his hands and rested them on his knees, blinking at the medallion on the blue carpet to clear his vision after the pressure he'd put on his eyes. He could hear the cutting dryness in his own voice.

"A possibility you entirely ignored."

He looked up and met Chris's watchful gaze.

"Ezra, it wasn't rabid. There was never any real danger."

"And you knew that because you're clairvoyant now, is that it?"

Chris's mouth thinned at his icy tone but his eyes didn't waver from Ezra's.

"Vin could see it clearly and you couldn't, but you knew and he didn't. Fine. But then tell me, Chris, if there was never any real danger, why did you feel compelled to rush in to save a damned horse? What exactly were you saving it from, may I ask, if your seerlike powers told you the wolf wasn't rabid and there wasn't any real danger?"

The silence was long and tense, their eyes rapiers clashing across the space between them. Chris disengaged first, his voice studiedly mild.

"The wolf might've got lucky and crippled it. Didn't have to be rabid to do that. I had my gun and Vin was covering me. I wasn't in danger."

"Lord, how could I forget that wolves without rabies are as harmless as kittens?--at least to a man who believes in his own legend of invulnerability."

He stared at Chris's set face. It hurt like hell that Chris had no idea how what he'd done had affected him. He crossed the room, still holding Chris's gaze, until he was close enough to Chris to have to look up to meet the wary eyes.

"How would you have felt if you'd seen Sarah rush into possible danger like that just to save your godforsaken horse?"

"Sarah!" Chris's surprised expression and incredulous voice might have struck him as comic at another time.

He turned away, squinting his left eye shut against the pain, which paled beside the turmoil of anguish inside him.

"Or Vin," he added, wearily.

"Sarah's been dead for nineteen years, Ezra. What the fuck has she got to do with this? Or Vin?"

He turned to look again at the rugged, handsome, beloved face. Anger still sparked among the sadness churning in his belly, and he felt too raw and weary to care about the consequences of speaking his feelings outright for once.

"Since I have to spell it out, try this: the way you'd have felt if you'd seen Sarah do it, or Vin, is how I felt when I saw you rush into the corral after Vin shouted rabies."

"For Christ's sake!"

Chris strode to his side. Chris's arms went around him even as he tried to move away. He was being manhandled toward the bed, and the anger surged to the fore. He shoved an elbow into Chris's ribs but Chris ignored it, bundling him to a seat on the bed and sitting close beside him, a muscular thigh pressing his leg down. He made to fling Chris away but Chris's arms held him with tensile strength.

"Settle down." Chris's voice was a harsh rasp, but his hands were gentle.

Chris leaned his forehead against Ezra's and cursed under his breath for a few heated moments, Chris's breath fanning warm against his cheek. Really, it was ridiculous. Surely he should be the one who was cursing. Before he could rally the impetus to move, however, Chris sighed and sat back. A callused hand cupped his cheek and his face was turned to meet Chris's eyes. Rueful exasperation stared at him from the dark green depths.

"You're one of the smartest people I've ever known, Ezra. But, fuck, you're one of the dumbest, too."

"Well, thank you so much for that sparkling accolade, Mr. Larabee."

He tried again to shrug away from Chris but Chris's fingers simply shifted to his temples, rubbing gently. He closed his eyes as the massage eased some of the pounding tension out of his head. Chris's fingers were work-worn, but his touch was tender and knowing. When Chris stood and left the room, Ezra felt bereft. He slumped tiredly on the bed.

Chris returned holding a damp rag, which he pressed across Ezra's eyes. When Chris encouraged him to lie down, he did, curling onto his side. The featherbed dipped as Chris settled behind him, still holding the cloth over his eyes, and they lay together, Chris's long body a warmth against his back that finally made the shivers stop. The number of Lilliputians flinging knives into his eye diminished and he eventually relaxed, acknowledging the futility of clinging to anger and fears and doubts about matters over which he had no power.

Only when he had relaxed and pulled the rag away from his eyes, tossing it onto the nightstand, did Chris speak. His voice was a soft version of his everyday rasp, even-toned but imbued with emotion.

"Sarah's been dead for nineteen years. You and me've known each other almost as long and been together a lot longer'n Sarah and me were. If she hadn't died, we'd've never met; and, hell, I'm not the same man I was when she was alive. Sarah's not in the damn picture; she never was. If she walked through the door right now, I--I couldn't go back to being what I was then.

"As for Vin--"

He twitched, but Chris's hold tightened and he settled, knowing the impossibility of trying to get away from a determined Chris Larabee. He'd revealed what he'd carefully kept hidden for years, and now he had no choice but to face the consequences of his rashness and listen to Chris's truths in return. His stomach fluttered with foreboding as Chris continued speaking in a reflective voice.

"Vin and you just ain't anything alike. Vin...Vin's like a lake that sits in a valley, one of them big calm ones that's always there, dependable as day and night. It gives you all the water you need, all year round the same, deep enough to swim in, warm near the shore and with a smooth bottom to walk on. You know you can always sink right into that lake and be safe. Looks pretty, too, every evening when the sun sets on it, and you can think on it when you're not there and always know just what it's like, even if you don't see it for years."

Chris eased him onto his back and went up on an elbow, leaning over him with intense and somber eyes. He had nowhere to look but into those compelling eyes that filled all his vision, just as Chris's vivid presence permeated his entire being and Chris's low-pitched voice drowned out every other sound. He wasn't sure he entirely wanted to hear, though part of him did, and Chris gave him no choice in the matter, anyway.

"You ain't like any smooth lake, Ezra. You're like a mountain river that's never the same two times running. Sometimes that river's so still you can wade in it like the lake; other times it's a rush of water with an undertow waiting to grab you and drag you under. It can be warm like it's got its own sun in it, then so cold with ice melt it knocks the breath out of you. Can't trust the bottom, neither; just 'cause it's smooth gravel one day don't mean it won't be full of sharp rocks or sinkholes the next. You can't ever know what you're going to find the next time you go looking for that river; hell, sometimes you can only find it at all after a hard search because it's gone and changed course on you.

"But the water in that river don't just wash you and keep you from being thirsty. That water's sweeter and fresher than you ever figured water could be. If you're lucky and really work at it, sometimes you can catch a trout in that river, too, that tastes better'n you'd think food could. And it ain't just pretty--"

Chris's voice caught. He stared mesmerized at Chris's face as a wry smile curved the fine mouth and warmed the dark, steady eyes. Chris's hand covered his and their fingers intertwined with the unthinking familiar possessiveness of years.

"Tell the truth, that river's bitching hard work, but the struggle it puts you to makes you know you're alive more'n anything else in the world. The fucking thing gives you such a good feeling you don't ever want to let it out of your sight in case you can't find it again."

He closed his eyes as Chris kissed his temple, then feathered a kiss against his eyelid before pushing back from him again.

"I reckon the way you felt when I went into the corral today is the way I feel every time I watch you ride away. I know I don't say it often but, Christ, Ezra, you must know after all these years how much I lo--"

He surged up and grabbed Chris, covering Chris's mouth with his own in time to take the word right into his body. He took Chris's affirmation inside the essence of himself where the heat of it sheared away every shard of fear and doubt, cauterizing every wound he'd ever had so they'd never bleed again.

 

###### PART FIVE: LAST WORDS

Chris held Ezra in a loose embrace. Ezra had fallen asleep, exhausted in the aftermath of strong feelings the way he always was after he'd managed to get himself twisted into knots. Nothing was ever simple with Ezra, which was the attraction and beauty of the ornery bastard--although, even for Ezra, keeping dark feelings simmering in secret for this many years was a tad extreme.

He needed to remember Ezra wasn't as confident and in control as he always pretended. Had to remember Ezra's need for words, too, and give them to him more often. He stroked a finger over the silvered hair at Ezra's temple, noting the lines on his forehead had smoothed away now the headache was gone. They hadn't made love earlier, just kissed and touched, unbuttoning each other's shirts so they could slide their hands over warm flesh and hold on. Half a day's work remained to be done. Anyway, they'd have this evening alone together to be relaxed with each other, and tonight to make love.

Sex was all their relationship had started out as, years ago, but sex wasn't always necessary now. Sometimes, it was better just to be close.

Not that the sex wasn't still a feeling like nothing else in the bitching world.

He'd get up in a minute, fold the quilt over Ezra and go outside. Ezra needed the rest. He strutted around like a bantam cock, looking like nothing could knock him off his roost, but he wasn't as strong as he made out. He coughed too much and got headaches and tired more easily than he'd used to. Clever and hard-minded as Ezra was, too, he still had his insecurities; would always have them, Chris reckoned, one way or another. Ezra'd be all right, though; nothing kept him down for long. After a few hours' sleep, he'd be up and back to his usual self, as pushy and mouthy as ever, driving him crazy and making him glad to be alive all at the same time.

After all, there wasn't a chance in hell Ezra wouldn't have more choice words to say about today's incident after he got his steam built back up--which was all right because there was always one surefire way to distract Ezra's one-track mind.

Smiling, Chris lifted himself carefully from the bed and went to meet the rest of the day, contentment and anticipation making his step and his heart light.

**Author's Note:**

> The quoted excerpt is from _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_ by Mark Twain, first published in a subscription edition in December 1889 by Charles Webster and Co., New York, with 221 illustrations by Dan Beard.


End file.
